


To Sherlock, From John

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Establishing Relationship, Even if he does have his own agenda, Gifts, John's hidden talent, M/M, Multiple POV's, Mycroft is a good brother, No Mary, No baby, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Post TAB, Sally is a bitch, Sherlock is more than a bit of an arsehole, Well one in particular, Wonderful Lestrade, beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: If Sherlock could have one gift, what would it be?  To be able to take back the words he said to John; for John to wake up from his coma; to have John back for good.  Instead, all he has is a small rectangle, (obviously a book), wrapped in plain brown paper , fixed with three too many pieces of sticky tape.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was just meant to be a short piece of fluff about John giving Sherlock this particular gift for his birthday after not being able to think of anything else to get the man. It then turned into something deeper, angstier and lengthier, resulting in what you are about to read. 
> 
> I apologise for any medical terms or procedures, recovery times etc, that are incorrect. I did do a lot of trawling through medical websites on coma’s and TBI’s to try and make it at least a little bit realistic, but if I am way off the mark, please forgive me and just pretend it is all correct!! It is amateur fiction after all! My resources are google….that is it. 
> 
> But anyways, I hope you enjoy and, as always, feedback is a welcome gift that I like to keep close to my heart.
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

January 6th.  Just another day.  Just because it happens to coincide with the day that Sherlock was brought into this world, squirming and screaming, means absolutely nothing to the man except that he now adds another number onto his age.  That is all it signifies.  Nothing more, nothing less.  It is something that happens to every person, once a year, without fail.  The only thing to stop this particular event from happening, is death.  Unless of course you are unfortunate enough to be born on the 29th of February, which just supports Sherlocks argument that birthdays are well and truely, redundant.  For those leap year babies, that argument is completely invalid.  They do not only age one year in four just because their birthday only come around that often.  Therefore birthdays are an idiotic concept and not worthy of celebrating.

Unfortunately the rest of the world does not view birthdays as such and feel the insipid need to celebrate such a common and unextraodinary event even when the owner of said day isn’t at all interested in such celebrations.

It was why Sherlock Holmes has just dropped a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper, stuck together with three too many pieces of sticky tape than was strictly necessary, onto the desk.  On the front of the parcel, written in black biro in Johns neat handwriting, are four simple words:

_To Sherlock_

_From John_

He knows Sherlock well enough to know that he would just sneer at even the idea of a greeting card.

The parcel (clearly a book) sits next to the gift bag that holds the yearly bottle of Aberlour SingleMalt Scotch Whisky and leather gloves that his brother unimaginatively gifts to him annually via the ever efficient Anthea.

It is just another way that John Watson leaves Sherlock Holmes completely baffled in such a predictable way.

Sherlock likes John.  A lot.  He more than tolerates the man who he can’t just read, as he does with everyone else.  John is an anomaly.  No nonsense, yet ridiculously silly; Hardened, yet a romantic; A healer, yet has taken several lives; Comfortable, yet dangerous; Highly moral and still happy to partake in a bit of B&E.  Sherlock has had the most interesting conversations with John, yet the man still feels the need to watch football and read dull novels.

 And he still insists on celebrating things such as Christmas and birthdays, (which is tedious and annoying at best - frustratingly painful at worst and a complete waste of time), even though he does not follow any religion and is aware of Sherlocks aversion to such sentimentality towards particular days of the year.  It is why he still purchases gifts for his flatmate when he knows his flatmate will not gift him in return.

It is the way of John Watson and for the life of Sherlock Holmes he does not understand what makes this small unassuming man tick and while it should drive the detective, the man who roots out all of the answers, absolutely mad, he has never been more thankful than the day Mike Stamford brought John limping into the labs at Barts.

There is always something that Sherlock misses or that John keeps safely hidden away.  John isn’t aware that he does this, which is another redeeming point in John’s favour as far as Sherlock is concerned.  It makes the man more of a mystery and John Watson is one mystery that Sherlock hopes he will never completely figure out.  

But that doesn’t mean that he is going to open the present that John had left for him on the coffee table before heading off to work, and then pretend to be thankful and gush over something that will probably be poor quality and full of mistakes, just to make the man happy.  The present would stay on the desk until Sherlock needed some cheap paper to test absorption rates on (because it would be poor quality as John has no conception of what weight, caliper, grain or opacity has in relation to paper) or a quick fire starter for something that may or may not possibly lead to small explosions inside the flat.  

At least the gift isn’t completely useless.

~o~

John should be fuming.  He should be raging and livid and fighting back.  Instead he is numb.  Where there should be a bright white ball of fury, there is nothing.  No feelings, no thoughts, no awareness of his actions.  To be honest, he is not actually sure how he got down the stairs but here he is, the sound of the door knocker gently _chinking_ as he calmly shuts the black door of 221 Baker Street before he turns left and walks down the street.  He’s not sure where he is going but he does know that he needs to get somewhere that isn’t here because here is no longer a place of comfort.  Here leaves an empty feeling in his stomach and a vile taste in the back of his throat; harsh whispers echoing in his ears.

John walks, ignoring everything that is going on around him.  That is not something that comes naturally to him.  Years of being on ones guard in the army and then years of watching ones back chasing the worlds only consulting detective and then another brief period of time not knowing what your assassin wife’s motives are, generally keeps you in a subconscious practice of always keeping an eye on your surroundings, but not today.  

Today John Watson is completely oblivious to anything outside of his head.  Anything that is not a muted rerun of the past hour running through his mind.

_Sherlock had been in a vile mood - the case was not going as smoothly as it possibly could have been, people not cooperating, requests and results not coming in fast enough for the man who’s ever going brain moved at lightning speed.  He wanted answers now.  Now was going to stop another murder from happening.  Three young people were already dead and despite what Sally Donovan still thought about the detective (her distrusting and abusive nature had become worse since the detectives miraculous return from the dead) Sherlock didn’t want to see yet another life snuffed out prematurely because of incompetence and bureaucratical red tape.  And to be honest, even though he was in a rather horrid mood, more so than normal, he was still manageable, at least until Sally fucking Donovan and her new sidekick - Sergeant Evanson - waltzed into the conference room which Sherlock was using to analyse every bit of information and evidence they had._

John is unaware of the black car idling up next to him, so lost in thought over the previous events and people involved.  And despite wanting to be angry at everyone, John just can’t rouse the feelings.  Not at Sally and her new tormentor for not keeping their opinions to themselves, not at Greg for once again taking Sally’s side rather than listening to Sherlock and most of all, not at Sherlock for….

“Doctor Watson.”  John is pulled out of his self pitying by a familiar voice and he slows to a stop, sluggishly swivelling his head around to see ‘Anthea’ standing with the back door to the car open.

It takes a few seconds for Johns numb brain to register what he is seeing and another second or two for him to decide that he really doesn’t want to put up with this bullshit, at least, not today so he turns his head back and continues walking.  He is only vaguely aware of the tapping of heels as Mycroft’s number one lackey hurries after him.

“Doctor Watson, it would be in your best interest if you would just join me in the car.  Mr Holmes…”

At that name John finally snaps, his numbness sparking into pure annoyance.  “Well, you can just tell Mr Holmes that I am not interested.  If he wants to know what his brother has done this time then he can go and ask his brother himself because, quite frankly, I am done with the lot of them so if you don’t mind, I am on my way somewhere” and then, not noticing the slightly shocked look on the usually emotionless woman’s face he spins around and marches somewhere.  He doesn’t know where but it is somewhere. He only hopes that the closer he gets to somewhere and the further away from Baker Street, the memories of the past half hour will fade away.

_John made tea as he listened to Sherlock pace manically back and forth.  He could hear the frustration and anger, of being kicked out of Scotland Yard in every step the taller man made._

_“Sit down” he instructed, placing Sherlocks tea on the coffee table, taking his own seat with his own cup of tea._

_This had obviously been the wrong step to take as Sherlock whirled around and pressed his most vicious glare on John._

_“Is that your answer to everything” Sherlock sneered.  “Fucking. Tea” and with that he picked up the cup John had just set down and flung it towards the mirror above the fireplace.  The sound of the glass cracking and the china shattering wasn’t enough to muffle the harsh, panting breaths that were coming out of the detectives mouth._

_John refused to look at the mess.  Refused to let the shock of Sherlocks sudden behaviour show on his face.  Instead he took a steadying breath and looked up at the man.  “Look, Sherlock, I know that what just happened wasn’t right or fair, but…”  
“You know?” Sherlock laughed, but there was certainly no merriment in the sound.  “You. Know?” The man repeated, each word being bitten off in his mouth.  “The day you, John Watson, _ know _anything will be a miracle indeed.”_

_John shut his mouth closed and glared up at the other man.  He had been on the receiving end of Sherlocks frustration before.  He knew that it was just Sherlocks reaction to what he perceived as the stupidity of people and in this case John would have to agree with him.  What had happened at The Yard had been an unprovoked attack on Sherlock and as usual the detective had been blamed, despite it not being his fault.  This was the only reason that John didn’t immediately pull the younger man up.  Let him have it out, get it out of his system and when he was calmer, then John could point out exactly why Sherlock was an absolute dickhead and Sherlock would give a small smile and agree._

_But this time, Sherlock didn’t back down.  This time Sherlock continued and as each rant became more and more personal John found his fight response growing weaker and weaker as his body felt more and more numb._

_“John Watson, the man who doesn’t know anything that isn’t clearly spelt out for him.  The man who doesn’t know what to do or where to go unless it is explained in simple, step by step detail.  John Watson who doesn’t know the difference between a colon and a semicolon or that his sister is drinking again, or that the nurse at the clinic is pilfering drugs.  The man who didn’t know that his wife was cheating on him and was, in fact, not even a nurse at all but a government trained, assassin.  John Watson, the man who doesn’t recognise when it is all. A. Magic trick.”_

_By then John hardly heard any of the words that were spewing from Sherlocks mouth.  At first it was just noise, white noise that resounded inside his head, taking slow, sluggish seconds to form and make sense._

_“Yes, John.  The day you know something will be the day you truely surprise me.”_

John isn’t sure what happened after that.  The next thing he remembers is hearing the door knocker quietly _chink_ as he shut the door to 221 Baker Street, and apart from his brief conversation with Anthea he is completely unaware of everything else around him, not even the vibrations of his phone ringing in his pocket or the car that is discretely trailing him.

~o~

Greg has had enough of fucking Donovan.  Her attitude sucks, and is the reason she will never get promoted from sergeant and also why his headache is now three times worse than it was an hour ago.  Why the fuck did he listened to her - again!   No, he knows why.  Because he is her boss and he has to give her the benefit of the doubt every time.  Especially over Sherlock.

Despite it being two years since the man had come back from the dead, since his name had been cleared after being wrongfully soiled, (regrettably with the help of Greg and his team), his superiors were still a bit tetchy on allowing him in on cases, even if it is all done above board these days.

So when Greg had walked into the conference room to find John physically holding a seething and spitting Sherlock back he had had no choice but to tell Sherlock to leave and come back when he was calmer.  He had even threatened to throw the man in a holding cell when he refused to leave.  This had seen John tugging on his sleeve and whispering something in his ear.  All Greg had caught was “ _…not worth…_ ” and “ _…an hour or so, okay_.”

Sherlock had stalked off without another word and John had quickly followed, neither one making any eye contact with another soul or saying a word.  It was after he turned back around, after the duo had disappeared from sight, that Greg had caught the smug smile quickly dropping away from Sally’s mouth.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” Greg all but growls.

Sally’s eyes go wide and innocent.  “You know the Freak.  He’s unstable.  A bloody psychopath.  Who knows why he does things.”

Greg glares at Sally and she and Sergeant Evanson both seem to shrink back.  “I think the two of you need to fill me in on exactly what happened.”

As expected Sally and Marcus give him broken and half facts pertaining to what had transpired between them and Sherlock.  It is a misplaced teenager who fills him in on the rest.  

The kid, Wayne Jenkins, son of one of the DI’s from narcotics, was for some reason wandering around on their floor without being pulled over and redirected back to his mothers office.  Greg can’t find it in him to be annoyed that the kid is somewhere where he clearly isn’t supposed to be as he had seen and heard everything and was filling Greg in on how Sally Donovan and Marcus Evanson had walked in to the conference room and, without any provocation, started in on Sherlock (or, ‘ _the tall posh looking one with the hair_ ’, according to Wayne),  telling him that he was only hindering the investigation, making them follow useless leads and that when the next body showed up it would be all Sherlocks fault.  Sally had apparently then gone on to explain to Marcus, the new member to Gregs team, that Sherlock wouldn’t mind that though.  He got off on dead bodies, especially the weird ones, such as what they were investigating at the moment.  John (‘ _the short angry looking one_ ’) had tried to calm his friend down and as per usual Sherlock had thrown deductions about, that shouldn’t have been aired in public, like other people relayed what they did on the weekend and as usual, Sally had got her back up, getting really nasty, resorting to spouting about Sherlocks sad and pathetic lonely life stating that he was so desperate for attention from John that he had actually pretended to kill himself in front of the doctor which was when Sherlock had launched himself at Sally, only to be held back by John.

Sally at least has the decency not to deny the facts that are being presented to Greg from this scrawny teenager and only grumbles under her breath when he assigns her desk work, claiming she will only be back on active duty, when he sees fit, unless she is absolutely needed.  Evanson blanches as Greg gives him a dressing down before scuttling away with his tail between his legs and the kid just smiles smugly and holds out his hand for payment for information.  Greg tells him to bugger off and then prepares himself to make one very apologetic phone call to one very irate man, because even if they didn’t need him, (which, god help them, they did) Greg considers Sherlock a friend and he should have pulled him into his office to let him explain,  rather then not only telling him to leave, but threatening to lock him up as well.

Greg picks up his phone and dials Sherlocks number.  It rings out.  Five minutes later he tries again.  It ring out again.  Not surprising.  Sherlock doesn’t like talking to him at the best of times, reverting to text messages instead, so he is hardly going to answer his phone after todays earlier events.

Greg fishes his mobile phone out of his pocket and thumbs open a new text.

**Look mate, I really am sorry about earlier.  I know I shouldn’t have kicked you out.  I know what Sally said and I fully support your reaction.  I will even be happy to send you out a Report of Harassment form.**

He sends the message and then decides to send one more.

**Just let me know when - if you want to return to the case.  I really don’t think we can do this one without you, mate.**

Greg sits back and waits for a response.  He gets nothing.  Grumbling out aloud about not having time for this crap, but internally worrying that there is no answer, not even a snide response, Greg calls Johns phone.  Just like Sherlocks, it rings out.  He leaves a voice mail message, relaying basically what he had said in his text messages to Sherlock and then hangs up and gets back to work.

He has a serial killer to find and now, thanks to Sally’s unrelenting grudge, he no longer has his best resource to work with.  It is going to be a long day.

~o~

Greg had been right.  It was a long fucking day, and despite trying, he has been unable to get a hold of John or Sherlock and is now officially worried.  Over what he is worried at, he isn’t sure, but something isn’t right, so at 915pm Greg leaves his office and makes his way to Baker Street, instead of his own home and is instantly glad and regretting the decision to do so at the same time, for the sight that meets him is one that won’t leave him for a very long time.

No one answers when he knocks on the door of 221 Baker Street, despite there being lights on inside so Greg takes the key that Sherlocks brother had given him not long after the man had moved into Baker Street and lets himself in.  From the bottom of the stairs he can see the light spilling out of apartment B and flooding onto the landing.  Cautiously he makes his way upstairs, the silence seeming ominous, only, the silence doesn’t last long.  As he gets closer to the top of the stairs, a quiet, rhythmic noise can be heard.  Just a whisper of soft cloth rubbing up on a harder surface, back and forth, over and over again.  If there had been any other noise in the flat, if Greg hadn’t been holding his breath in anticipation of something terrible happening, he wouldn’t have heard it, but there it is, whisper quiet - _swish, swish_ back and forth, over and over again.

Greg picks up his pace and quickly steps into the living room of the second story flat to find Sherlock Holmes, curled up on the end of the couch, seeming impossibly small for such a large man, clutching something to his chest, rocking back and forth, his hair sticking up in all directions, his eyes blank, his face lax.  

The first thought that comes to Greg’s mind is drugs.  This is exactly what Sherlock looks like when he is desperately hanging for another fix; a look he hasn’t seen on the man in over seven years; a look he had never hoped to see on the man again.

The second thought that comes to Gregs mind is more urgent.  What has happened to John Watson?

~o~

Oh god, what has he done?  He has broken John.  What the fuck has he done?  John, strong, reliable, trustworthy John.  Kind John, John, his friend - his best friend.  John who is there for him, even when he has other things to worry about.  John who puts Sherlock before everything else.  Funny, happy, resourceful, _knowledgable_ , John.  John who always backs Sherlock and now Sherlock has broken him.  He had spat cruel words.  Vile words.  He had brought up horrible parts of Johns life and twisted them into venomous lies and he has now broken the man.

John, brave, strong John had sat there and taken it all and Sherlock had watched as the man who was larger than his physical measurements made him out to be had become smaller and smaller until there was nothing but an empty shell and only once Sherlock had stopped spewing forth toxic vitriol had the man quietly stood up and left, without a word and without a backwards glance.  He had silently gone down the stairs, not grabbing his coat to ward of the icy winds and possible upcoming rain, and had left the building, closing the door with a quiet calm that had screamed at Sherlock, ripping his heart in two, leaving him shattered and unable to follow his friend because he is not worthy of John Watson.  If he were to go down and expose more of himself to what was once a proud man he would only hurt him more.  In less than five minutes Sherlock had already taken something that was wonderful and beautiful and had ripped and crushed it until it was a mangled mess.  God only knew what he could do with another five minutes.  There would be nothing left of John Watson.  Just dust to blow away in the wind.

He stands, looking at the doorway where he last saw John for he doesn’t know how long.  When he stops looking at the door he goes over to the window and looks down at the street below.  Somewhere in the distance he hears his phone ring.  He ignores it in favour of waiting for John to come back home, watching for the familiar figure so he can go down and greet him and pull him close and apologise for all the things he said and didn’t mean.  It was all lies.  He didn’t mean any of it.  He was wrong.

He has to find out what to do to make John better, because John should never look empty, as he had when he left the flat.  He should never be broken.  Sherlock had fixed him all those years ago.  He fixed him because John was meant to be whole.  He let him marry Mary because Mary seemed to make him whole.  He brought him back to Baker Street when she left, because this is his home and it makes him happy and John Watson should always be happy, so why did he say those things to John?  Why did he feel the need to break the man so much?  The man he had spent so long keeping together.

It was Sally’s words that had made him angry - her taunting and biting, always about things she knows nothing about - always pushing his buttons, looking for a reaction and it was Lestrades actions, making _him_ leave in the middle of a case, too simple and ignorant to realise that he was doing nothing but playing into Sally’s hands and hindering the progress of the case that had left him frustrated, but most of all it was him, Sherlock Holmes, that reacted to it all, who let them make him angry.  He ignored people on a daily basis so why couldn’t he ignore them.  

John had done nothing wrong in all of this.  He had stood up for Sherlock and had prevented Lestrade from having to make real on his threat of a holding cell.  He had tried to ease the man’s agitation and had made him a cup of tea, which despite Sherlocks actions he had actually wanted.  Everything John had done had been for Sherlocks benefit and Sherlock had done nothing but viciously pull the man into so many pieces that it may actually be impossible this time round to put him back together again.

Sherlock continues to stare down at the street below him, frowning at every person that isn’t John who walks past.  Once the daylight fades Sherlocks frown falls off his face and his features crumple into that of panicked desperation.  His shoulders slump and he leans forward, his head resting on the cool glass as the thought that maybe this time John won’t come back runs through his head.

Eventually Sherlock turns from the window and something catches his eye.  Plain brown paper, partially covered with loose sheets of music or old forgotten notes; a few pieces of junk mail and the menu for the sushi bar around the corner.  Sherlock reaches over and pushes his hands under the random papers and grabs the brown paper wrapped parcel, his fingers sliding over one of the extra pieces of sticky tape, the cool smooth texture gliding under his skin.  He pulls the gift up, sending papers sliding to the floor where they will lay forgotten and he turns it over in is hands.  

The paper is no longer pristine, smudged ink and ash from various experiments plus a dark ring from where he had placed a coffee cup on it a few weeks ago and something that looks suspiciously like a tiny, dried up drop of strawberry jam mark the paper but the four words are still unmarred.

_To Sherlock_

_From John_

Sherlock pulls his birthday present close to his chest and shuffles to the couch and drops down, drawing his knees up so they hold the parcel and his hands between them and his body.

John had given him this gift and he hadn’t even said thank you.  He hadn’t even had the decency to open it, to pretend to be interested, yet John had said nothing about it.  He hadn’t berated Sherlock about his lack of gratitude or about what normal people would have done.  He had expected Sherlocks behaviour and accepted it, as he always did and then it, the obvious gift, had been left there and forgotten about, used as a coaster for his mug and John had let it happen, because that is John.  Predictable and surprising all at the same time.

Sherlock doesn’t know when the rocking started and he isn’t aware he is doing it until a hand pushes on his shoulder, halting the movements.  For a brief second he thinks John has come home, but the scent is wrong.  John smells like aloe vera and tea and wool.  This smell is nicotine and coffee and easy sweat.  Lestrade then.

He goes to tell the DI to leave but then realises he may know where John is.  He and John are friends, so he looks up to the man and it dawns on him that if he does know where John is then it is bad news indeed, as the look on the other mans face is blatant worry.

“Sherlock” he hears Lestrade ask carefully, but it doesn’t sound right.  It sounds like he is behind several thick panes of glass.  “Where is John?” And Sherlock knows that over everything else that has happened today, something else is wrong.

~o~

Sherlock paces as the phone goes to voicemail once again.  “Pick up John.  Or at least message me that you are okay” he growls into the phone.  It is the eighth message of its kind that has been left in just over ten minutes.  He doesn’t expect John to answer the phone and actually talk to him, why would he after what Sherlock said, but the fact that he isn’t answering any of Lestrades phone calls or text messages is extremely worrying.

Lestrade is pacing in the kitchen, also trying to ring John, hoping that the barrage of incoming calls will convey to the doctor that they are worried about him.  Lestrade has called a couple of guys who he and John play rugby with as well as Molly but none of them have heard from him.  They all promise to get in contact if that changes.  

Sherlock snarls at Lestrade when he tries to take his phone out of his hands.

“Relax” he says soothingly.  “I just want to get a couple of numbers of people that might know where John is” he explains and Sherlock lets him take the phone and watches as he thumbs through Sherlocks limited address book.  Two minutes later he hands Sherlock back his phone and goes into the kitchen to call Mike Stamford followed by Sarah Sawyer.  Sherlock notices the resigned way Lestrade thanks both people while he, himself tries John’s phone again and again and again.

Next on the list is Harry.  Going by Lestrades limited dialogue, Harry is too wasted to realise who John is, let alone offer any insight as to where he might be.

Lestrade comes back into the lounge room, pocketing his phone.  “When did Mrs Hudson headed out?  Maybe she….”

“No, no, no, NO” Sherlock shouts.  “I told you.  She is at her sisters.  She wouldn’t know where John is” and again he is pacing as he listens to Johns phone ring out again.

“Look, I have put a call into some of the guys on patrol.  They will keep an eye out on the streets and an ear out for any suspicious hospital admissions.”

Sherlock can feel the colour drain from his face at Lestrades words and he watches as the other man realises his error as he takes in Sherlocks ashen complexion.

“Look” Greg quickly adds in what Sherlock believes is meant to be a reassuring voice.  It’s not.  “That is just a precaution.  I am sure that John is okay, probably just sitting at a pub somewhere cooling down from whatever it is you two are arguing about this time.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “He won’t come back.  Not this time.  Not after I…”  Sherlock can’t finish that sentence.  The guilt at just the thought alone of what he did to John is too much to bear, let alone admitting it out aloud.  “It’s been over ten hours.  He never takes that long to calm down.”

Sherlock paces back to the window and looks down at the street below, hoping, but not expecting, to see Johns familiar form march down the street, shoulders hunched against the cold because his jacket is still hanging on the hook.

“Did you want me to stay.  I could…”

“No.”  Sherlock doesn’t want to be around anyone at the moment.  Unless they know where John is then they are useless to him.

He hears Lestrade shuffling his feet, no doubt deciding whether to go or stay.  Finally, he must decide to go.  “Look, call me if you hear anything, yeah.  Or if you need anything.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and Lestrade finally gets the hint and leaves.  

‘ _Johnisfine-Johnisfine-Johnisfine_ ’ he tries to tell himself, but images keep flashing up in his mind of John, crumpled in a heap after getting hit by a bus, too angry with Sherlock to take notice of where he was going; John, laying bloodied and dead because he got into a brawl after getting drunk to deal with his anger at Sherlock; John, laying somewhere, abandoned, with a bullet in his head, delivered by someone who Sherlock had pissed off.

With an angry growl, Sherlock pushes the images away and goes to slump back down on the couch, picking up the wrapped gift that he had left there once Lestrade had motivated him into trying to contact John.  He sits there until the room brightens with the first tendrils of sunlight and he realises that it has been nineteen hours since John left.

Sherlock picks up his phone and once more dials Johns number.  It goes straight to voicemail and Sherlock hangs up, feeling the bubble of dread starting to rise up, into his chest again.

Suddenly Sherlock can’t take anymore.  He can’t take not knowing if John is safe or dead in a ditch somewhere.  The calm part of his brain is trying to tell him that John has just gone to a hotel or something to avoid being found by Sherlock but the louder part of his mind, the part that tells him to follow his instinct on cases, is telling him to PANIC!FINDJOHN!NOTSAFE!

There is only one thing that will shut that voice up and that is Johns voice telling him that he is okay.  Or telling Sherlock to piss off.  Either one would be entirely acceptable.

Sherlock rings Johns phone again and lets it go to voicemail.  “ _Please come home John_ ” he pleads.  “ _I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean any of it_.”  He hangs up.

Less than two minutes later he is ringing again.  “ _I promise, I will do anything to make it up to you.  No more experiments, no more midnight violin playing.  I will do the shopping.  Just, come home_.”

The third message left on Johns phone is “ _You don’t even have to talk to me any more, just…be here_.”

Just uttering the fourth message almost breaks Sherlock.  “ _Please, John.  I’m sorry.  I lov…_ ”

Sherlock doesn’t call John anymore.  After he uttered that half word, voicing it before he even really thought about it, he slumps into his chair.  It is true.  He loves John.  He always has but stubbornness on his behalf and denial on Johns had prevented him from doing anything about it.  Almost saying it out loud makes him wish that he had.  It is what he should have said when they got home today, not the despicable things he had thrown at John instead.

With a new resolve that pulls him out of his self pity, just a bit, he decides that even if John never speaks to him again - even if, when he returns to Baker Street it is only to pack his bags - then he still needs to hear it, from Sherlocks mouth, not over a phone message.  Sherlock at least owes him that much.  John deserves to know that he was never despised, but always loved but in order for that to happen he needs to locate John and bring him home, and he will bring John home because the thought of anything happening to John with the last words from Sherlock being _those words,_ leaves Sherlock feeling ill.  The thought of something happening to John, period, actually causes him pain so pushing aside his pride Sherlock opens up the contacts on his phone and dials the one person that can locate the whereabouts of John Watson, when everyone else has failed.

The phone only rings once before he is greeted with “Brother dear, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

~o~

Mycroft should have persisted in his earlier interference.  He should not have directed his assistant to leave the man in peace, but should have had John trailed until he became angry enough to get in the car, even if it was just to come down and yell at Mycroft personally, but _Should Haves_ were a waste of time, energy and brain power.  _Should Haves_ were for people that couldn’t come to terms with or were unable to take responsibility of the consequences of their actions _._ If he had spent his life pondering on _Should Haves_ he wouldn’t be in the position he is in now.  Which is the position his brother needs him to be as it seems that John Watson has flown off the radar, so to speak, and for once he can concede that his brother is not overreacting. 

The fact that John Watson left Baker Street in an obvious state of distress, not even twenty minutes after they had arrived back home was nothing unusual, although Mycroft had noted that he hadn’t left with his usual door slamming and scowl that seemed to only appear on the doctors face when his brother was being his usual particular brand of charming.

The fact that not a single one of Johns friends or limited family members has heard from him is more than a tad worrying.

That his brother had actually called him up, not bothering to hide the distress in his voice, and had practically pleaded for him to find John had sent alarm bells ringing, so much that Mycroft hadn’t even tried to lord the fact that Sherlock needed his help, instead ending the call with a reassuring “Leave it with me” before hanging up.

Twenty minutes he has had Anthea and Eugene working on locating the doctor.  So far all they have is that John had not used his bank card or made any phone calls, nor are there any hospital admittances or any arrests for drunk and disorderly that match Johns description.

Mycroft sighs as he leans back against his sofa.  He had relaxed somewhat, where it had come to Sherlock.  Since Mary had finally up and left and John had moved back to Baker Street, clearly where he should have been all along, he had found himself not worrying about his brother half as much as what he normally did, especially now that the Moriarty conundrum was finally laid to rest.  For over eight months he has let his guard down and now he sees that he became too comfortable with the safety net that was John Watson.  He should have known that things were going too smoothly.  It had been the calm before the storm.  Or maybe it was the eye of the storm, with everything that had happened previously, it only makes sense that for everything to be serenely calm all of a sudden, a falsely pleasant interlude before another upset was to occur - a pattern which would continue to go on at least until the two men finally sorted themselves out.  

Mycroft had become hopeful too early - too complacent and he had stopped keeping such a careful eye on the occupants of 221B Baker Street.  Now he realises that he should have kept watch just a bit longer, but we all know what he thinks about _Should Haves_.

Mycrofts musings over the relationship between the detective and the doctor are shattered with the shrill ring of the phone on the side table.  Not looking at the caller ID he picks up the receiver.  He offers no greeting, just sits and listens to what the caller has to say.  When they have finished, he thanks Eugene and hangs up, automatically going to his laptop on his desk and opening up the email that was just sent to him.  He watches the CCTV footage that was attached to the email and then lets out a pained whisper of a sigh.  

With a heavy heart he calls Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and requests his presence at Baker Street as soon as possible.  Sherlock should not be alone - or at least without a friend who can actually offer adequate comfort - when he receives the news that Mycroft has for him.

~o~

The hopeful look on Sherlocks face as Greg enters the younger mans living room is heartbreaking.  It is nothing, though, compared to the shattered way he looks when the man realises that Greg hasn’t come bearing good news.

In fact, Greg doesn’t know what news he is bearing.  He was just summoned away from what promised to be a fantastic artery hardening breakfast by the older Holmes brother, with directions to go to Baker Street and wait with Sherlock.

He hasn’t even fully stepped into the apartment when the door downstairs opens and Sherlocks look of utter desolation turns back into one of hope again as he watches past Greg, waiting for whoever is coming up the stairs to reach the top.  

Greg turns, just in time to see Mycroft Holmes step onto the landing, trusty umbrella in his hand, and the look on his face does not tell stories of good news.  With a slight nod of Mycrofts head the other man steps past Greg and into the living room and Greg knows that he is here for Sherlocks sake, not Mycrofts, not Johns - Sherlocks - which can only mean that Mycroft Holmes is here to deliver bad news.

Greg finally enters the flat and goes to sit on the opposite end of the couch as Sherlock.  It doesn’t quite seem right to sit in John’s chair and Mycroft has made himself comfortable in Sherlocks chair.  Greg looks over to the man sitting to his right.  It is evident that he hasn’t slept all night.  His eyes are dull, underlined with bruise coloured bags, his clothes are rumpled and Greg has never seen the man’s hair in such as state of disarray, not even when he was high.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock demands the news Mycroft has, although it comes out more like a plea than an order.

“My men have managed to trace Johns movements after he left the flat at 1123 yesterday morning.  At 1201pm there is footage of an unmarked car pulling up a few meters ahead of where he was walking.  Two men get out of the car and act to walk past the doctor, but instead of walking past him they drag him into an alley way.  It was all perfectly timed and not a single person was around to witness the attack, nor were our cameras angled to see down the alley way.”

Silence falls across the room and both Sherlock and Greg find them self waiting nervously for the outcome of the story.   The idea that John Watson never made it out of that alley way tries to sound out in his head but Greg keeps pushing it away.

“Six minutes later one of the men go to the car and reverse it back into the alley way.  Another two minutes later the car leaves.  I have had my men there and there is no body, so whatever befell Doctor Watson is as of yet unknown, except that we know he left in that car.”

Greg feels something hard and frozen settle in his gut and the voice that is trying to tell him that John is dead starts to get louder.  Suddenly his thoughts and feelings are pushed aside as he considers the man next to him.  Sherlock had been beside himself when John was just missing, but now that an attack of unknown severity had been established he was going to be inconsolable.

Greg turns to reassure Sherlock that they will find him but when he lays his eyes on the younger man, broken and inconsolable is not what he sees.

Sherlock is looking towards the fireplace, that familiar calculating look in his eyes, fingers steepled under his chin.  When Greg looks to Mycroft he can see the man studying his brother, a slight dip of concern on his brow the only show of emotion.

“So” Sherlock says after a few moments of silence.  “John’s not dead.”

Greg hears a small intake of breath from the man across the room before he says “Sherlock, I cannot guarantee that.  We do not know what state John was in when he was put into the car nor what state he is in now.  All I can assure you of is that I have my men searching for Doctor Watson as we speak.”

Sherlock does not seem at all perturbed by Mycrofts speech and continues to look at his brother, the look on his face that Greg has seen a thousand time, or possibly more, as the man contemplates the evidence presented to him.

“Yes, but we definitely know that there was no body in the alley way, nor any positive sign that he was dead when he was put in the car.  So, why would he be dead?  Why kill a man and then take the body.  Obviously the men who took him knew what they were doing, so they would have known they would have been seen on camera, therefore they are not worried about being caught.  They are confident that they will get away with it, so why risk leaving more traces of evidence, more chance to get caught by spreading the crime over multiple sites.” Sherlock speaks slowly, like he is running through all the facts for the first time.  “The men are clearly not known offenders or else you would have had them identified by now, so if they had wanted him dead they would have killed him in the alley way and left the body there, made it look like a mugging gone wrong, so therefore, they wanted John for something, therefore he is still alive.”

Greg knew why John always said _brilliant_ or _amazing_ , because it was.  He doesn’t get long to admire the genius that is Sherlock Holmes as said genius is suddenly standing up and stalking towards the door.

“I want the location where John was taken and any other information your agents have gathered” Sherlock orders as he slips into his coat and wraps his scarf around his neck.  “I want the make, model and date of that car and I want a copy of all footage that you have” he continues as he slides something into his pocket.  It takes Greg a few seconds to realise that it was the item that Sherlock had been clutching when he arrived the previous night.  A wrapped parcel of some sort.  Greg hadn’t given it much thought then but it is obviously something of importance as the man is still keeping it close.

“Where are you going?” Greg asks, the fact that Sherlock is preparing to leave finally kicking in in his brain.

Greg finds himself in the position of being under the glare of both Holmes brothers, and not for the first time since meeting Sherlock all those years ago.  The glare that practically screams ‘ _Are you stupid, man?!_ ’  It is not a comfortable position to be in and Greg just knows that it won’t be the last time he will experience it.

“I am going to find John” he states simply and then turns and leaves, all traces of the lost and broken man from moments before, completely gone.  Greg looks from the empty doorway to Mycroft and is not at all prepared to see what passes for a slightly pleased look on the mans face.

“What makes him think that these men haven’t already got what they wanted from John?”  he asks, the thought that yesterday morning would be the last time he would have seen John still bouncing around his head.  It wasn’t a thought he wanted to keep entertaining.

“Balance of probability” is the answer he gets, which means nothing to Greg and this is clearly evident to Mycroft.  “Detective Inspector, the chances that Johns disappearance is related to something that Sherlock has done or is doing is highly probable.  I can’t imagine the good doctor having too many personal enemies, can you?” Greg doesn’t need to answer that, which was probably a good thing as Mycroft keeps talking. “And John is stubbornly loyal to my brother.  Despite whatever argument they are in the middle of I find it hard to believe that he will give it, whatever they are after, up too quickly, do you?”  Again, Greg doesn’t feel the need to answer.  “Therefore, Gregory, it stands to reason that if John was taken because they want something from him pertaining to my brother, then they, whomever they are, are probably still waiting, wouldn’t you agree?.”

Suddenly the cynical voice in Gregs head is sounding quieter and quieter and he has a more hopeful outlook on the outcome of the case as he nods in agreeance, once again, admiring the brilliance of the Holmes mind.

~o~

“Doctor Watson, how nice of you to join us.”

John blinks his eyes, long and hard, trying to get them to focus, but to no avail.  The objects dancing before his eyes (are they dancing, or is it just because the whole room was moving?), refuse to sharpen into anything with detail, remaining fuzzy and mostly indiscernible.  He thinks they may have been people…probably.

“I wouldn’t worry to much.  The effects of the drugs will wear off shortly” comes the voice again and John tries to recall if it is familiar or not but the fact that it is sounding somewhat muted, like the man, who is more than likely standing in front of him, was in fact behind another wall, doesn’t help at all.

He gives his head a small shake and regrets the decision straight away as it does nothing but hurt, so he goes back to getting his eyes to work properly again and sure enough, after a few minutes things start to sharpen up.

Still feeling a bit woozy John slowly looks around at his surroundings.  He has no idea where he is.  It’s a room, but that is all he can tell.  The walls are blank, painted a dirty off white colour.  The floors are tiled in a similar colour.  There are no windows and only one door.  A bare bulb hangs, motionless, from the ceiling and right before him, just watching him, are two men that John has never seen before in his life.  At least, he doesn’t think he has seen them before.  He is still feeling a bit disorientated and nauseous. 

John tries to move and is unsurprisingly unsuccessful.  It appears that he is tied, ankles and wrists, to the chair that he is sitting in, and judging by the ache in his shoulder he has been there for no short amount of time.  What is surprising is his lack of shirt and shoes and socks.  ‘ _At least the let me keep my trousers_ ’, he thinks wryly to himself as he tests his bonds one more time.

“I wouldn’t try to move Doctor Watson.  It would be pointless and not to your best interest” says the voice and John looks up to its owner.  Tall, but not too tall, athletic build, dressed smartly but casually.   He doesn’t look too old but his blonde hair is receding.  His nose has been broken more than once but other than that John can tell nothing.  He thinks it is a good effort despite his head still feeling muffled from whatever the fuck they had drugged him with.

“You see, Doctor Watson” the man continues and Johns brain unhelpfully supplies how Christopher Eccleston he sounds.  “You friend has been digging a little bit too close to home and we want him to stop.”

It takes a few seconds for John to come to the realisation that he is talking about Sherlock.  It takes even longer for him to come to the conclusion that this is about the killings that they have been investigating.  “We need him to stop.”

At this john lets out a humourless chuckle, his mind going back to his last encounter with Sherlock.  “Then I suggest you take it up with him” he manages to get out, although his throat sticks on certain words due to his mouth being so dry.  “I don’t know anything and he doesn’t listen to me anyway.”

At this the man lets out a chuckle of his own and the sound of it doesn’t bode well for John, he thinks.  “Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem, Dr Watson, you see, he won’t need to listen to you.  He needs to listen to me.  You will merely be acting as the messenger.”

John doesn’t get time to think about what that means as right then the second man standing before him steps forward, and with a closed fist, hits John across the side of the face.

Pain blossoms out from that one point, spreading over his left cheek and behind his eye and he bites back the pained groan, not wanting them to see him as weak.  He squeezes his eyes shut until the pain dies away to a dull throb and then opens them again to look up at the  man he hadn’t taken note of before.  He is a tall thing, thin as a pole but obviously well muscled.  “You must be the help” he slurs.  “The ones in charge never want to get their hands dirty.”  John knows he is riling them up, but he has lost the will to give a fuck.  They were going to hurt him anyway, why not have some fun along the way?

As predicted, his comment earns him another smack across the other cheek, this one with an open palm.  “You hit like a girl” John says flippantly, spitting a glob of bloody saliva at the firsts man’s feet.  In his peripheral vision John sees the second man raise his hand once again, readying for another blow, but the first man speaks up, stopping him from doing so.

“Enough Kingston.  We don’t wan’t him too badly injured just yet.”

A small wave of relief goes through Johns body as the second man lowers his hand and steps back. 

“I should probably let you know that we are not going to kill you.  I can’t guarantee to what extent the damage will be, but killing you, at this point in time, won’t really help us.  You see, you are the message to Mister Holmes.  You are the message that we can take what we want, when we want and do whatever we please to it, and if he doesn’t back off from his investigations then next time we take you, we won’t be so generous.”

Again, a deep, mirthless chuckle escapes Johns lips.

“Do you find this idea entertaining, Doctor Watson?” The first man drawls, clearly not amused at Johns reaction.

“A bit, yeah” John replies.  “It’s just, you are under the assumption that Sherlock actually gives a shit.” The words hurt, more than the blows to his head, but he keeps going.  “I am nothing to him.  I make his tea and fetch things for him.  If you kill me, then he will just find someone else.  All you will be doing is providing him with an inconvenience, which will probably piss him off to the point where he will want to find you out of pure spite.”

As the words were pulled from his mouth they sounded more and more true.  John isn’t helpful.  He isn’t clever.  He does rely on Sherlock to spell things out for him.  He really is useless.  The fact that he had been so easily captured by these men was proof of that.

All this time he had kidded himself that he had become a better person since meeting Sherlock and that Sherlock had become a better person because of John.  That maybe, after all they have been through, they might move onto something more.  He had been wrong.  He is still useless and Sherlock apparently really is the sociopath that he always claimed to be.  

“Nice try, Doctor Watson, but everyone knows that the relationship between you and Mister Holmes is more than master and lackey.”

John lets out a huff of a laugh.  “You don’t strike me as the kind to listen to idle rumours.”

“Enough chatting, Doctor Watson.  When we have finished with you, we will leave you somewhere where Holmes will find you and you will pass on the message for him to back. The fuck.  Off.”

John raises his head and looks the man in the eyes.  “Fuck you” he snarls, for as much as Sherlock is an epic twat there is nothing that John would do to make him back away from this case, even if he were able to.  

With a sharp intake of air through his nose the man steps back and looks over to Kingston.  “Finish him up” he says and then strides out of the room.

John looks up at the man who is studying him like someone would an interesting specimen and John knows he is figuring out what to do next, what he can do to inflict the most amount of pain without John losing consciousness.  Not wanting to give the bastard the satisfaction of letting the man see even the smallest amount of trepidation in his face, John closes his eyes and relaxes his head back against his neck and waits for the first blow.

When it comes it is to his left shoulder, right over the old injury that had seen him out of the army.  It was unexpected and fucking painful.  The next ones that follow are across his chest and abdomen and the pain as he feels his ribs crack is excruciating.  Just when John thinks that Kingston has had enough, he walks away, only to come back with a rough plank of wood in his hands.  For some reason John’s first thought is that it is going to be a pain in the arse getting all of the splinters out.  Those thoughts flee when the piece of wood makes contact with the back of his head.  The second time it happens, John hopes that when Sherlock finds these bastards, he fucks them over good and proper because it is then that John realises that Sherlock didn’t mean what he said.  Couldn’t have meant what he said.  John may not know much but he knows Sherlock and Sherlock would never intentionally hurt John that way.  When the wood slams against his skull for the third time he doesn’t think of anything because everything blacks out again.

~o~

Greg paces the floor of the waiting room again, looking up when he hears hurried footsteps coming towards him.  With a frown he lowers his gaze back to his feet and does yet another lap of the waiting room, stepping around the odd stain on the tan linoleum as he has done each time he passed it, listening to the nurse rush past him and scan her card to let her back into A&E.

Looking at his watch he sees that it has been twenty-one minutes since he had called Sherlock and eighteen since he had hung up from talking to Mycroft.  

At six minutes past seven, just as Greg was settling down to left over pizza after a disgusting day at work not only trying to solve the case he had essentially kicked Sherlock out of, but also looking for John, he received a call.

John Watson had been found, beaten and unconscious, half naked in a back alley in Camden Town.  By the time Greg had got the call the no longer missing man was in the Ambulance and on his way to the UCLH.  

Greg had waited until he got to the hospital, to see for himself, before he made any calls, but John was already being prepped for surgery by the time he got there.

The sergeant that had called it in was still waiting though and he confirmed that it was most definitely John Watson, usually seen following Sherlock Holmes.  He handed over an evidence bag, containing a note and told Greg, briefly, what he knew.  It wasn’t much.

Greg thanked Sergeant Olsen and sent him on his way, making the phone call to Sherlock before the other man had even left the waiting room.

It had been a quick call, consisting of Greg telling Sherlock that John was alive and where he was.  Sherlock had not said anything, just hung up, presumably to go catch a cab to the hospital.

The phone call to Mycroft had been a bit more detailed.  Greg had passed on all information that he had, little that it was and informed Mycroft that Sherlock was hopefully on his way.  Mycroft had offered to meet them at the hospital and hung up as well, without so much as a thank you or a goodbye.

Greg holds up the bag one more time and rereads the note which has been addressed to Sherlock.  This was all the man needed.  He already blamed himself for John leaving, thus getting kidnapped.  Now he has a note telling him that if he doesn’t back away from his current case, Doctor John Watson will be delivered back in pieces next time.

When he lowers the bag he is startled to see Sherlock, only three or so paces away from him, staring at him with a mixture of hope and deep worry on his face.

“Sherlock” he says, stepping forward, but Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him.

“Where is he?” he asks and Greg gets a good look at the man before him.  It is clear that Sherlock has not slept at all since Greg left him the day before, which isn’t unusual for the man, but without John to force at least tea into him and on top of the emotional upheaval that the man will deny he has gone through, it has taken its toll.  He looks drawn and pale.  His hair, usually artfully tousled, now hangs limp and bedraggled and Greg is sure that he is wearing the same suit he had been wearing, not only yesterday, but also the day before.

“They were getting him ready for surgery” he tells the man before him.  Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but this time Greg holds up his hand to stop him.

“I don’t know any more than that, Sherlock.  They wouldn’t tell me anything, other than he came in unconscious and needed surgery.  I promise, if I can find out more, I will let you know.”

“That won’t be necessary, Detective Inspector.”  Greg looks up behind Sherlock to see Mycroft heading towards them, his ever present assistant trailing behind with a blue folder in her hands.  When the other man stops next to his brother he holds his hand out and the folder is deposited into it.  It is then handed straight over to Sherlock who instantly opens it and starts scanning the pages.

“Dr Watson was brought in, unconscious presumably caused by trauma to the head.  Scans have been carried out to reveal swelling that may or may not need surgery to relieve.  He also suffers from multiple cuts, bruises, lacerations and fractures, many to his torso resulting in internal bleeding, for which he is being operated on as we speak.  I assume we will know more once the surgeon has finished his work.  May I see the note?” Mycroft asks, holding out his hand and Greg knows he isn’t asking, but politely demanding, just like he knows that he shouldn’t be surprised that Mycroft Holmes has all of Johns medical details in a neat little folder, but he is, and he can’t say that he isn’t just a little bit impressed.

Greg hands the note over to Mycroft, but it is snatched out of his hand by the other Holmes brother.

“What note?” Sherlock asks, holding the evidence bag up and peering at the contents.  “You never mentioned a note” and Greg can hear the frustration in his voice as his eyes track over the messy scrawl that is stained with what is presumably Johns blood.

“You didn’t really give me a chance” Greg replies and he watches as Sherlock appears more and more withdrawn, the further down his eyes move over the rather lengthy and detailed letter.

Gently, Mycroft reaches over and pulls the bag from Sherlocks fingers, softly pushing on his shoulder until Sherlocks feet get the hint and walk him over to one of the hard blue chairs and then he sinks down onto it, wrapping his coat around him tightly.

“It’s my fault” he mumbles to no-one in particular.  “I drove him away.  I did this to him.  If I hadn’t taken the case…”

“Stop right there” Greg orders.  Now is not the time for self pity.  “This is none of our faults, Sherlock.  This is the fault of whatever sick fuckers have been killing those kids and we will get them.  They will pay for what they did to John, I promise.”

Sherlock looks up at Greg and again, Greg is disturbed at how lost the man looks.  He almost looks child like and Greg would love nothing more than to wrap his arms around him and tell him that it was all going to be all right, but he knows that that sort of comfort would not be tolerated by the usually proud man before him.

“I…I can’t...John…” Sherlock stammers and it almost breaks Gregs heart to hear him so unarticulated.

Mycroft steps up next to Greg and addresses his little brother.  “No one is asking you to continue this case” he tells Sherlock and Greg is surprised to see him rest a hand on Sherlocks shoulder.  This somehow seems to work as Sherlock relaxes somewhat back into the chair and looks down, giving a short nod.

“I am sure Gregory and his team will locate the men doing this and I will aid as much as my resources will allow me to.”

Greg tries not to let his shock show at this statement, nor let the fact that he is pleased at spending more time with Mycroft show as it is really not the appropriate time, but neither brother is paying him any mind.  Sherlock is once again holding that wrapped parcel in his hand, his fingers tracing lines over the surface and Greg can make out Johns handwriting on the brown paper.  It is a gift to the detective, from the doctor and Greg sort of gets why Sherlock has it, although he doesn’t understand the significance, but then again, he isn’t supposed to so he refrains from asking about it and instead decides to sit across from Sherlock and wait for the surgeon to come, hopefully baring good news.  He is not at all disappointed when Mycroft takes the chair next to him, where they both observe the man across from them, completely lost in his own mind.

~o~

The pain in Sherlocks lower back, courtesy of the poorly padded chair that had been supplied by the hospital, finally gets too bad for him to ignore and he stands up for the first time since sitting down next to Johns bed just over two hours ago.  That was two and a half hours after John had gone into surgery to stem the bleeding that would have surely killed him, from the inside, had he been found any later than he had.

He winces as the nerves in his lower back twinge before he walks to the other side of the room and then back again, to sit back in the uncomfortable plastic chair again to keep vigilance over the man still sleeping in the small bed, hooked up to various monitors that track his heartbeat, brain activity and oxygen levels.  There are multiple tubes running into his body feeding him the necessary antibiotics, fluids, and pain relief that will help him recover from what he has been put through, and more tubes expelling any unwanted waste.

His upper body is swathed in bandages, but they don’t hide the myriad of cuts and bruises that litter his body.

Thankfully the swelling on his brain doesn’t need surgery and will reduce in time due to medication and monitoring, but the doctors are unable to tell when he will wake up or if any permanent damage has been sustained.  They won’t know until he wakes up.  Sherlock heard the _if_ that the doctors didn’t voice.  In all, it is just a waiting game, a game that Sherlock is not good at playing, but for John he will.  For John, he will do anything.  

Sherlock shivers, the hospitals air-conditioning blowing directly onto him.  He could move, but this is the closest he can get to John and is not prepared to move, just because he has a chill.  Instead he picks his coat up from where it is draped at the end of the bed and pulls it on, something heavy weighting it down and slapping against his thigh gets his attention.  Sherlock reaches in and pulls out the parcel that John had left for him months ago.

Slowly his fingers run over the seam in the paper and cautiously the tip of one finger slides under the overlapping edge and carefully peels away one of the pieces of sticky tape.  His finger slides down further and it peels off the other one.  Next he loosens the folded end at the bottom of the parcel and then moves to do the same to the top end.  

The brown paper covered rectangle now sits on his lap, unencumbered by the bonds that were holding it sealed and suddenly Sherlock is afraid to completely reveal it’s contents.  Afraid of what he will find.  Afraid that he will never be able to thank John for giving it to him.

His right hand gently strokes down the paper, accidentally pulling the top layer down and over, just enough that Sherlock catches a brief glimpse of deep red, before the paper slides back into place again.

Taking a deep breath, and ignoring the slight shudder that runs through his fingers, Sherlock pulls the folds of brown paper back revealing a 6X8 inch red journal, approximately 150 pages.  Running his hands over the cover and bringing it up to his nose to inhale the scent he determines it to be calf leather.  

Opening the Journal up he sees that the first page is blank.  He studies the texture of the paper.  He had originally been wrong.  It isn’t of poor quality at all.  Upon further inspection Sherlock determines that the paper, a creamy off white, is thick with a high opacity.  It is of a 330 gsm with a caliper of maybe .014, short grain, hot pressed, 100% cotton, acid free, smooth and cool to touch.

Tentatively he turns the first page and what he sees was not what he was expecting.  Not that he knew what to expect, but if he had guessed at anything, this would not have been it. 

There on the page is a detailed drawing of the cross section of two different brains.  There is a written description at the bottom of each one.  The first one reads _Healthy Brain,_ the second, _Sever AD_.  The handwriting is Johns; his neat handwriting and the diagrams are flawless.  Drawn in a heavy graphite they are sketched perfectly proportionate and extremely detailed.  

John did this.  Even without his handwriting underneath the diagram there is something about it that just identifies John as the illustrator.

Slowly, Sherlock turns the page again.  The image that meets him this time is of a heart, but the left ventricle is distorted, ballooning out at the bottom.  Takotsubo cardiomyopathy - also known as the broken heart syndrome.  A sentiment that Sherlock had thought ridiculous until recently. Sherlock keeps turning the pages to see different medical diseases and maladies and deformities staring out at him from the paper, some in lead pencil, others in charcoal.  Some even have a splash of colour, highlighting certain points of interest and a couple are even done in biro.  Each has a brief explanation of what it is at the bottom of the page, not that Sherlock needs the words - Johns diagrams are flawless.

There is no specific order to the pictures.  It is as if John had opened up the book each time and decided to draw something random, maybe something he had seen at the clinic, or had read about in a journal that day; eyes with cataracts; a polycystic kidney; a perforated appendix; ovarian torsions; comparison of the substantia nigra between a healthy brain and one effected by Parkinson’s; Necrotic toes and fingers. There is a rather complex and captivating diagram of the hand of someone suffering from Epidermodysplasia verruciformis followed by a charcoal sketch of the upper arm, clavicle and three of the left ribs of a Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva sufferer.  Multiple cuts and wounds caused by various different instruments  and weapons as well as various different burns caused by different chemicals or sources of heat litter the pages along with infected spider bites, festering wounds, cysts and boils.  The strokes of the pencil perfectly illustrate the physical symptoms of alopecia, cold sores and various skin rashes.  Different styles of suturing and scarring all look out at him from the carefully decorated pages of the small journal, all accurate and proportionate, all full of the most intricate detail.  For someone who usually does not observe, John has left nothing out.  Sherlock was not even aware that John could draw, let alone to this quality which surpasses many professional pictures he has seen in published works.  It is just one more surprise John has held back for Sherlock.

Inside the back cover John has scrawled, in his messy doctors hand this time;

_I know it’s not overly practical or anything new to you but I thought it would at least keep you amused for half the day, and I know you like the funny ones.  Sorry it’s not full.  I ran out of time.  Maybe you could add to it, or you could probably leave it in the book shelf - either way, happy birthday._

_John._

How could he ever leave this on the shelf?  John made this.  John put it together with Sherlock specifically in mind.  This would have taken time and patience.  No one ever invested that sort of time in Sherlock, simply for Sherlocks interest with no expectation of reciprocation of any form.  He had done all of this with the assumption it would only be looked at for half a day (if that) and then forgotten about on the book shelf.

On multiple occasions Sherlock has heard the term _Feeling Gutted_ but had never experienced it, so as he feels the insides of his stomach clench and writhe, as if trying to escape, he snaps the book shut and holds it close to his chest, against his heart, which may possibly be distorting its left ventricle right now.  He then tucks himself up as much as possible in the small plastic chair he had pulled as close as he possibly could to Johns bed and holds the book even tighter and then he does something he has only done three times since he hit puberty.  

He cries. 

His shoulders shudder jerkily as he keeps his sobs as contained as possible, snot and tears running from the appropriate orifice on his face as his breath hitches while he tries to keep himself silent.

~o~

Mycroft looks around the establishment and keeps the distaste from his face.  It is small, loud, smells of stale beer and is horribly outdated, but he is not here for the clientele or the interior decorating.  He is here because after finding the men who Sherlock had been tracking, the ones who had taken John Watson and beaten him into a coma, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had invited him out to what he termed as _a post case drink._

Granted, Mycroft hadn’t done much but that is what he employs others for, so he doesn’t have to do the leg work, but he was more than happy to accept the invitation all the same.  After all, it would have been impolite to decline.

It has been three days since Dr Watson was found, two days after being taken from the streets and attacked and shoved into the boot of the car.  In the end, it was that very car that had lead to the arrest of the men responsible for five dead bodies and an unconscious doctor.  The men responsible for his brothers current distress.  

The car, which had been used to take John to a house in Maida Vale had then been used to transport him to the alley way in Camden Town, only this time the car was hit by another car as it left the dumping ground.  

It hadn’t taken long to find the repair shop that had given a quote for the cars repairs, which the drivers had reattached the licence plates to, so as not to seem suspicious of any wrongful or illegal activity.  It was then a case of tracking down the owner of the fake business that the car was registered to, only to find the very two men they had been looking for.  One had refused to talk, but the other caved once he was removed from police custody and taken to an interrogation room in an undisclosed location.  Less than an hour and they had the name and address of one Reginald Hunt.

The evidence found not only at his house, but also at various other locations connected to Mr Hunt, was damning and would see him in prison for the rest of his natural life.

Once Gregory had called to say that all had been cleared up and thanked him for his help he then mentioned that it was usual for him to go out for a _post case drink_ and had nervously extended the invitation to Mycroft, which is how Mycroft now finds himself sitting in the Rose  & Anchor, with an overpriced mid - standard single malt sitting in front of him and Gregory Lestrade across from him.

“Thanks again for your help, Mycroft” Greg says, absentmindedly rubbing at the back of his head, _not_ looking Mycroft in the eye.  “Without that we would still be trawling through all the auto-repair shops.”

Finally he looks up at Mycroft and gives a small smile before looking back down into his beer.

“Not at all Detective Inspector.  It was nothing, and I assure you, for my brothers piece of mind, I would have offered more if it had been needed.”

The words surprised Mycroft for several reasons.  The first being, that although it was true that he would do literally anything for Sherlock, it was almost unheard of for him to actually announce it to anyone.  His parents and Anthea had been the only ones up until now to have ever heard him even indicate that he cared somewhat, above just being annoyingly controlling, about Sherlock.

The second reason is that even to those that he had voiced his unyielding support for his brother to, it had never come easily.  Since Sherlock had been in his early teens it had always been a battle of wills between the two of them.  When he had announced it to Gregory, just then, it had come out with an ease he had not expected.

The shock of the statement seems to affect the man across from him as well, as for a brief moment his mouth goes a bit slack jawed and his eyes widen, but it is only for a second.  It is soon replaced by a small, but smug grin.

“I knew it was all a show” he mumbles into his glass and Mycroft pretends to not know what he is talking about.

They settle into a comfortable silence and Mycroft muses to himself about how easy this all is, sitting here with Gregory and not being expected to do anything or say anything.  It is just easy.  Something Mycroft hasn’t experienced in a long time.

“I went to see John this morning, before work” Gregory says after a bit.  “He seems to be doing better, apparently.”

“Hmm, yes” Mycroft agrees.  “Although Sherlock is being as impatient as ever.  For a mind so intelligent he is having a hard time understanding that these things happen gradually, not suddenly.”

“Sentiment” Gregory offers with a soft smile.

“Sentiment” Mycroft repeats with a smile of his own, although, he knows his must look sad.  He has berated his brother on the downfalls of sentiment many times, yet, in truth, it has been sentiment that has seen his brother survive these past years.  It is sentiment that allowed he, himself to agree to coming out tonight.  It seems everyone is a victim to it in the end.

Just then his phone vibrates in his pocket.  Pulling it out he sees that it is Anthea calling.  He quickly answers it.

The news she has is not good at all.  “I will be there in ten minutes” he tells her and hangs up the phone.

“Problems?” Gregory asks, concern on his face and in his voice.

“So it seems” Mycroft replies, standing up.  “It appears Doctor Watson’s improvements seem to have come to a stand still.”

At this news Gregory also stands up and Mycroft feels admiration for the man at his loyalty to his friends, knowing that he will be joining Mycroft on the trip to the hospital.

Mycroft doesn’t wait for Gregory to ask whats wrong.  “Twenty minutes ago, John suffered from a seizure.  Sherlock has been banned from the room until he can calm down.”

“Jesus, fucking hell” Lestrade grumbles as he turns and strides from the establishment, Mycroft not two steps behind him.  

Without thinking, Mycroft follows Gregory to his car and slides into the passenger seat, knowing that his car will follow behind them.

Gregory wastes no time in turning the police lights on and pulling away from the kerb.  They make it to the hospital in six minutes.

~o~

The scene that meets them is not a pretty one and they can hear the commotion as they step out of the elevator.

Outside a closed door, not far from the nurses station, two of Mycrofts men stand blocking the entrance to a store room, while behind the door, it is evident that things are being thrown around, threats sporadically being yelled out in a familiar deep voice, only this time, it has an unfamiliar panicked undertone.

“I swear, if you don’t open this door now I will fucking kill you.”

Greg would be lying if he said he wasn’t shocked.  Never has he heard Sherlock threaten someones life before, and never has he heard the man swear. 

“Miles, Sellers, you may step down” Mycroft tells the two guards calmly and with a nod, they step away from the door, the huge red headed one handing Mycroft a key as they do.  

With a slightly resigned sigh, Mycroft unlocks the door and opens it, stepping out of the way, just in time to avoid getting hit in the head with a flying kidney bowl.

“Sherlock” he says, stepping into the room, his voice calm and soft, yet authoritative.

Greg steps up behind Mycroft just in time to see Sherlock lower his arm, the box of latex gloves in his hand dropping from his now limp fingers.

“They dragged me out” he chokes, looking desperately to Mycroft.  “He started….he was, shaking and his monitors were screaming and…then they wouldn’t let me see him.”

“You need to calm down Sherlock.  Calm down and then you can go back to John.”  Mycrofts voice is calm and gentle, as if he were trying to gain the trust of a skittish animal.

“No one would tell me what was going on.  I didn’t _do anything_ , they just wouldn’t let me back in.”

Normally Greg would have rolled his eyes at the notion of Sherlock ‘ _not doing anything’_ , but in this instance he felt compelled to believe him.  These past three days had seen a completely different side of Sherlock emerge.  Although he had still been snappish and rude and let everyone know exactly what he thought, it had all been done half heartedly.  His main concentration had been on John.  He had literally taken on the role as Johns carer.  He was combing his hair and reading to him and massaging his arms and legs.  He was having foods that John liked brought in, leaving them where the aromas would reach John.   This morning when he had come into see John it had been to find Sherlock shaving John’s chin.  Before he had left Sherlock had then further surprised him by awkwardly asking him if he would like to come by tomorrow and watch the game with John.  Greg was certain that Sherlock didn’t know what the game was, but he had obviously stored away, in that mind palace of his somewhere, that on Saturday afternoons, John and Greg met down at the pub, or Gregs house, and watched the football.  Greg had agreed and then gone on to work.

The man had been inquisitive in Johns progress, asking the doctors and the nurses everything he could, and wanting to know why more couldn’t be done, but not once has he heard of Sherlock doing anything that would cause him to be kicked out of the hospital.  Even Greg knows that Sherlock has more sense than to risk being separated from John, so something had happened between John having his seizure and now that has made the man breakdown into the lost little, confused boy that stands before them.

“You could have called me” Mycroft tells his brother kindly.  “I would have sorted it out for you.”

Sherlock looks from Mycroft, to Greg, and then down at the box of gloves that he had dropped mere moments before.

Finally, Greg feels the need to say something.  “Look, you’re exhausted.  You have been sleeping in a chair for the past three nights and god only knows how much sleep you had before then.  Why don’t we grab a coffee from the kitchen across the hall and then go see John, yeah?” 

Sherlock looks up at Greg with something akin to gratitude on his face, although it is barely noticeable through the sheer exhaustion that is painted across his entire body.  

“Come on, then Mycroft and me will see about getting this store room sorted.”  Greg looks to Mycroft and sees a thankful look tilt the corners of his mouth up and then he turns back to Sherlock who is making his way to the door.

The visitors kitchen is small and stocked with the equipment and ingredient necessary to make a cup of coffee at the usual shitty hospital standards that seem to be the norm across the country.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks quietly as he hands Sherlock the Styrofoam cup.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything at first and Greg is sure he isn’t going to get an answer but then Sherlock lets out a long, wearied sigh and sinks onto the chair against the back wall.

“I thought he was getting better” he says quietly, not looking up from the murky brown liquid that is still slowly swirling in the cup from where Greg had stirred in Sherlocks standard four sugars.  “He has been opening his eyes and moving his arms and legs.  This afternoon he even mumbled something.  Then tonight, we were doing the crossword in the paper, John truely is rubbish at them but I don’t mind.” Greg smiles as Sherlock gets off track.  “He was getting better, but then he started twitching and his heart monitor started spiking and by the time I hit the call bell he had gone rigid and his eyes were…they were so wide Greg.”  Greg doesn’t miss the fact Sherlock actually got his name right, but puts it down to a one off.  Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.  “And then the fitting started and he sounded like he was in pain.”  When the nurses came in they pushed me back and that was okay, but then one of the orderlies dragged me out and at first I didn’t know what was going on, but then Johns door was shut and he wouldn’t let me back in.  I tried to get in, I really did, but he was big and I could hear the nurses on the other side and the machines were still going off and then I started yelling because they wouldn’t let me see John and then there was another one, another man and they dragged me into the other room and I heard the door lock.  I don’t know why, I don’t remember what happened and then you and Mycroft were there.”  Greg places a hand between Sherlocks shoulder blades and starts to rub large circular motions against his back to calm the man down who is quickly getting more and more agitated the more he speaks.

After a few circles, Sherlock physically relaxes somewhat.  After a few more rubs he speaks again, but his words are so quiet that Greg almost misses them.

“I told him he was useless, the day he left.  I said he didn’t know anything and I was so horrible to him.”

“I’m sure had things gone differently, he would have gone for a long walk, blown off some steam, probably at a pub, and gone home to tell you what a wanker you are and then things would have gone back to normal.  It always does with you two.”

“Not this time” Sherlock whispers.  “I accused him of being blind about Mary and about my…” Greg feels the despair radiating from the other man and somehow knows what he is struggling to say next. “I essentially told him that he was an idiot for not knowing that I, that when I…”

Greg places his hand on Sherlocks shoulder and the other man looks up at him, tears welling in his eyes.

“It’ll be alright, okay” he reassures Sherlock, and although Greg agrees that yes, Sherlocks comments had been way out of line and that yes, John had the right to be angry when he had left Baker Street, he also likes to think that he knows John Watson and John Watson would have calmed down after a while, even if this time it had taken a few days rather than a few hours.  

“Come on” Greg encourages, putting his hand under Sherlocks elbow and helping him stand up.  “I’m sure your brother has smoothed things over and has some answers for us.”  He takes the untouched cup of coffee out of Sherlocks hand and drops it in the bin and then steers him towards Johns room.  Along the way some of the nurses throw a sympathetic look towards Sherlock, not that he sees them as his eyes haven’t left his feet since he stood up, so Greg throws them an appreciative smile on his behalf.  The few that glare at the two of them as they go receive a glare right back that Greg is proud to say would rival one of the man’s who’s elbow he still has in his hand.

He had been correct in believing that Mycroft wold have sorted things out.  Already the man has organised replacements for the items that Sherlock had destroyed in the store room and he has also gotten a hold of the doctor in charge of John.

“Seizures are actually not uncommon in coma patients” the doctor explains, speaking to all three of them.  “John has been progressively showing more and more signs of activity and that is good.  His rating on the Glasgow scale has gone from 6 to 11, which is a positive sign and while todays events may cause a setback in Johns progression, we are still very hopeful that he will pull through this.  Unfortunately it is all just a case of waiting.  There is honestly nothing that we can do to speed up the process.”

Greg watches Sherlock, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of John since he walked in the room, and listens as Mycroft thanks the doctor.  

For a few long moments there is nothing but the sounds of the machines monitoring John.

“You should get some rest, Sherlock” Mycroft states quietly.  When there is no response from the man holding Johns hand Greg turns to Mycroft, who in turn looks to Greg.  With a slight inclination of his head he motions that they should leave the two of them alone and Greg informs Sherlock that they will be back the following morning.  As expected there is no response so he and Mycroft make their way out of the hospital room and toward the elevator, leaving Sherlock waiting for John to wake up.  If that was going to take forever, then so be it.

The kind calm that Mycroft had uncharacteristically shown throughout the entire event suddenly tuns off once the two of them are inside the elevator, when a look of barely contained anger takes its place on the man’s face.

“What did my brother have to say?” He asks, his gaze locked on the elevator doors in front of him.

Greg relays what Sherlock had told him, leaving out about the part of his and Johns argument.  When he has finished speaking Mycrofts expression is stony, and that was putting it politely.  “My assistant has viewed security footage and spoken to two of the nurses that were on duty.  It appears that, for once in his life, Sherlock did absolutely nothing wrong.  The first orderly that had pulled him out of Doctor Watsons room apparently has a habit of being a bit too _overzealous_ when any opportunity comes along to be able to manhandle trouble patients.  He has failed recruitment for both the army and for a position as a prison warden.  His last three jobs, working as a bouncer at various nightclubs, saw his positions terminated for too much rough handling of patrons, especially those in same-sex relationships.  After tonight, he will be finding himself looking for yet another place of employment.”

Greg gave a curt nod, no doubt believing that the man responsible for forcefully, and unnecessarily, removing Sherlock Holmes from the side of John Watson, was getting off lightly.

The rest of the elevator ride is in silence and it is only as they exit the hospital that Mycroft speaks again, his anger now having subsided quite a bit.  

“I must thank you, Gregory, for you help with my brother tonight.  I know he does not express it, but he is thankful for all that you do for him, as am I.”

Greg didn’t know what to say.  It wasn’t that he thought Sherlock was _unthankful_ for everything, John offered his and Sherlocks gratitude for the work and for turning the blind eye on a regular basis, but he just never expected to hear it from a Holmes.  Especially, not this particular Holmes and he quickly tells his brain that it is the sudden change in temperature, from going from the warm hospital to the bitter cold outside, that is the cause of the red he can feel tinting his cheeks.  

“Think nothing of it” he replies, looking down at his foot, scuffing at a stain on the pavers.  “He’s a good bloke.  You too” he adds on, and internally cringes.  Why the hell had he said that?

Greg looks up just in time to see a small smile slip away from Mycrofts face.  

“Well, I must apologise, I will not be able to finish of our drink.  There are things that I need to sort out, so another time perhaps.  Until then, I must bid you a good night Detective Inspector.”

“Greg, please, and I look forward to it.”  This time he returns the smile that Mycroft doesn’t hide and as the two of them part ways, Greg can’t help but feel rather content with that promise.

~o~

Sound is the first thing that registers.  A familiar soft beeping and whirring and hissing.  The distant sound of a metal trolley being pushed on linoleum and rubber souled shoes squeaking as they walk past.  He is in hospital.  Again. 

The smell of plastic, medication and antiseptic only strengthens his theory but then there is the smell of garlic and basil and something else.  Sandalwood?

Following that, feeling starts to settle in.  There is soft behind him, a bed most likely and he is warm.  Something is pushed against his side.  A weight is across his lower stomach and there is pain.  Everywhere. 

It kicks in suddenly and his eyes shoot open, instantly blinking them closed again against the bright white that welcomes him.  A muffled moan leaves his mouth and slowly he opens his eyes, one painful millimetre at a time.

What he sees confirms that, yes, he is in hospital and a slight turn and inclination of his head not only causes him to flinch in pain, but also locates the smell of sandalwood.  It is coming from the mass of dark curls that he is met with.  This explains what is pushed against his side.  For some reason Sherlock Holmes is cuddled up against John in his hospital bed, his long arm resting against Johns stomach, his hand grasping onto his hip.  It is then that John notices the deep, heavy breathing, interspersed with the occasional soft snore.  

John doesn’t know why Sherlock is in his bed, nor why he is in hospital.  In fact, John doesn’t really know anything.  Everything is rather foggy.  The only solid fact is that he is in pain, but Sherlock is preventing his arm from moving to grab the call button.

“Er’o” he says, trying to wake the sleeping detective, and winces at the rasping pain in his dry throat.  Frowning, he tries again.  “Er’o.”  A frustrated hum leaves his mouth next and it is this that startles the younger man awake.

“John” comes the sleepy reply and then a more alert “John” as Sherlock sits up and stares down at John with wide eyes.  “John, can you hear me?”

 _‘Of course I can hear you, you berk, you are less than a rulers length away from my face’_ John thinks but all that comes out of his mouth is “Eh” accompanied by a single, half nod of his head, which he instantly regrets.

As Sherlock scrambles off of the bed, John tries to ask where he is, but all that he manages to say are a series of rambled vowels and panic starts welling in his chest.  Something is wrong.  Why isn’t he talking right?

“John, you need to calm down” Sherlock tells him taking Johns hand in his own, and he barely registers the sound of a heart monitor somewhere, picking up pace.  “You’re safe now John.  You’re not with Hunt any more.  We found you.”

Sherlocks words aren’t making sense.  Who is Hunt?  And why was John lost?  And, fuck, why is he in so much pain?

John is barely aware of the fact that someone else is entering the room, the noise in his head and the pain lancing through all of his body taking away most of his focus, but he is suddenly aware of Sherlocks grip on his hand loosening and the man stepping away.  Instantly, Johns hand shoots out to grab Sherlocks wrist, but he misses and ends up grasping air.  Sherlock must notice as he steps back forward and John feels a familiar hand, wrap warmly around his own again.

John tries to say Sherlocks name again, but all that comes out is “Er, o.”  

He hears a nurse speak.  “Mister Holmes, I am going to have to ask you to step back, just for a moment.”

John’s hand tries to tighten around Sherlocks and an “O” leaves his mouth, his eyes widening.  Something is wrong with him and he doesn’t know what.  He can’t be left alone, not when he doesn’t know how he even got here.

“John” Sherlock says soothingly and John has never heard the man use that tone before but it does help somewhat.  “John, I need to let go.  I will just be over there” he tells John, pointing to the window behind him.  “You will still be able to see me.”

John wants to shake his head, but it hurts, so he tries to tighten his grip again, but it is a feeble attempt.  Sherlocks hand comes up to stroke through his hair and John feels himself relaxing to the point where his hand drops away from Sherlocks and slowly, Sherlock steps away from the bed, moving back and not taking his eyes off of John the whole time.  

Johns attention is pulled away from Sherlock by the nurse talking to him.  She asks him a series of questions while she checks his vitals.  He tries to answer, but the words don’t come out right.  The nurse tries to comfort him by telling him that things will sort themselves out gradually and that the doctor will be by soon and then she leaves them.

As soon as the nurse is gone Sherlock is by his side and holding his hand again.  “John?” Sherlock asks quietly.  John doesn’t know what he is asking, but whatever it is he knows he can’t answer it.  Suddenly John feels tired.  He feels more exhausted than he has ever felt, and not wanting to fight any longer, he lets his eyes slide shut, with Sherlock promising that he will still be here when he wakes up.

Sherlock is there the next time he wakes up.  And the following time, and the time after that.  If John didn’t know the man any better, he would say that Sherlock wasn’t leaving the room at all, but John does know the man and Sherlock would never be able to stay sitting in that one spot for a prolonged period of time unless he was traipsing through his mind palace, which, if he is on a case, would then be entirely possible.

The idea of a case brings certain memories back to John, and every time he wakes up he remembers more and more of what happened.  Sally Donovan stirring up Sherlock;  Sherlock throwing tea;  Three dead kids;  Anthea asking him to get in the car;  Sherlock telling John he is useless;  John leaving;  Greg demanding to know what the hell was going on; the door knocker gently chinking as he calmly shuts the black door of 221 Baker Street.

As the day progresses the brief snippets of events become clearer and slot themselves into order, but he doesn’t remember past telling Anthea to leave him alone.  That is it.  That is where his life as John Watson stops, until he opened his eyes to find himself broken beyond his worst nightmares.

~o~

It has apparently been ten days.  Ten days since he stepped out of 221B Baker Street and eight days since he was found.  What happened between days ten and eight he can’t remember, even after Sherlock had explained all that he knew.  The memories just didn’t want to resurface.

Whatever it was that that person had done, has left John a former shell of his old self.  When he had woken up from his eight day long coma it had been, not only to a broken body, but also to a broken mind.  He couldn’t speak, his hand/eye co-ordination was shot to hell and he was unable to concentrate for long periods of time.  All of this, the doctor had told him, was more than likely going to fix itself as his brain rebooted itself after being almost inactive for a long period of time.   John just needed to be patient, as there was no rushing these things . It was easy for him to say, John had thought bitterly, it wasn’t his career, his life, that was effectively over.

But wait he does, and thankfully, and much to his surprise, Sherlock waits with him and within the first two days things start to click back into place again, just a bit.

Although his speech has improved somewhat, he is now able to produce more than just vowels and some of his words are understandable, even if incomplete, his basic hand eye coordination is still practically non existent. 

Not only that, but he has trouble staying focused.  This first became evident when Sherlock had to explain three times what had happened to him that had left him in a coma for eight days.

The doctor, too, had had to repeat himself several times and trying to stay focused was just too exhausting, so John slept.  It is better than the alternative and that is resigning himself to the fact that his life is essentially over.  A man with a tremor can no longer be a surgeon, but at least he can still heal.  A man with no proper speech or coordination and one who zones out every so often is of no use to anyone.  Not to patients and especially not to Sherlock.  John is now officially a liability to The Work.  Now he really is useless.

Even without being told, John knows that his stay in hospital isn’t going to be an overnight thing.  It is going to be a long tedious wait of tests and observations.  Sherlock surprises him by staying with him, despite John knowing that there are experiments at home that Sherlock had been rather enthusiastic about before the Reginald Hunt case came up.  He surprises him more by helping him with literally everything, from fluffing his pillows, to shaving his stubble.

The first couple of days are trying.  While John does improve somewhat and is reassured by both the speech therapist and the physiotherapist that he should regain full control over both his words and his movements, he can’t help feeling skeptical.  He also can’t help feeling resentful.  And then he feels guilty that his resent is directed at Sherlock.  While John is grateful that Sherlock is here with him, helping him, he can’t help but feel that he shouldn’t need it.  That it is humiliating that he has been brought down to this level - of needing help eating and bathing and dressing. The feeling of fear, pain, frustration and resentment, on top of feeling guilty for feeling those things, coalesce into one big feeling of anger, on more than one occasion, and John can’t control the way he reacts to that feeling.  He lashes out, at whoever is close by.  More often than not, it is Sherlock.  He knocks the bowl of mush that the hospital insist on feeding him off of the over-table while Sherlock assists him in eating because he is in his forties for god sake - he should be able to feed himself.  He yells at Sherlock to stop talking because he does it so well and John can barely manage a basic, legible sentence.  He lashes out when Sherlock helps him get comfortable in bed, because John can’t sit in a chair for a prolonged period of time without being in too much pain.  

On the fifth day he barely manages to stop himself from blaming Sherlock.  Just briefly, the thought that it is Sherlocks fault that he had left the flat, that he had been too occupied with his thoughts to notice his assailants come up to him, flashes through his mind and he wants to open his mouth and attempt to yell these things at Sherlock.  To make him hurt and feel like shit, because John most certainly does, but he clamps his mouth shut after the word “You…” is barked out and then he clenches his fist and screws his eyes shut.  He can’t do it.  Sherlock doesn’t deserve the blame for this.  Despite the events that lead up to his abduction and subsequent beating, Sherlock is not to blame.  John takes a deep breath and tries to will away the pain in his head, which is getting worse.  Suddenly, it goes from bad to unbearable in a matter of seconds and John feels himself falling back on the bed, his body going rigid as he starts to fit.  

John has never been more scared in his life as his body bucks and thrashes uncontrollably on the bed.  He is distantly aware of people in the background somewhere, Sherlock saying his name, no, yelling it, but he can’t do anything, but it doesn’t matter because suddenly, there is nothing again.

~o~

It takes over four weeks to get to this point.  Thirty two day of not knowing if Sherlocks actions have irreversibly ruined his friendship with John Watson or not.

As it turns out, he answer is yes.  It has.

They have been home for less than twelve hours, the doctors finally deciding that, after three weeks of consciousness, John was able to be released from hospital.  The fact that he had come back to Baker Street had been a huge weight lifted off of Sherlocks shoulders; off of his conscience.  But ever since they had returned to the flat things have been strained.  More so than what it had been at the hospital.

John, after slowly making his way up the seventeen stairs, had stopped in the doorway and looked towards his chair.  That had been the first indication, since he woke up three weeks ago, that he may not have forgotten all of what Sherlock had said back then.  The look on his face had been unusually blank and instead of going over and sitting in the chair that had become his the day he had viewed the flat, he had gone into the kitchen and sat on one of the hard uncomfortable kitchen chairs.

Since then Sherlock has tried to make things as easy for John, just like he had at the hospital.   Since his first seizure after he had woken up, John had started to withdraw into himself.  The one following that a week later had not done anything to help boost his confidence, especially since that one had seen him  lose control of his bladder.  For a full two days afterwards he had refused to look Sherlock in the eye and it had left Sherlock barely able to hold himself together, knowing that John was ashamed of himself.  Just another reminder of how Sherlock had broken a once proud man.

Despite his speech improving quite quickly he still had some trouble pronouncing some words.  Words such as _Deduce, Linoleum_ , _Appreciate_ and oddly enough, _Shoes_ , just to name a few, still managed to leave the doctor tongue tied.  Words such as _Fuck, Off_ and _Twat_ had been easier to reclaim.  

Sherlock had taken Johns frustrated rants and tantrums in silence, and without fighting back.  John wasn’t angry at Sherlock, never directly.  It was always an outlet for the frustration he felt at being reduced to a dependent halfwit, (John’s words, not Sherlocks.  Sherlock would never see John as such), and Sherlock let him, because it was his fault that John had been placed in such a situation in the first place.  So he sat while John ranted and threw things.  As the weeks went on the anger had become less and less until a look of resignation seemed to settle over the man and that broke Sherlock more than any of the  hurtful words that John hadn’t thrown his way despite him deserving them.

So for eleven and a half hours Sherlock has observed John while he tries to adjust to life back at Baker Street, huffing out a few words to Sherlock and pointedly _not_ sitting in his chair.  Sherlock watches as John tries to lift his leg so his foot doesn’t drag when he walks.  He watches as he dozes on the couch after only reading for twenty-three minutes.   He watches as he almost drops his tea cup and he watches as he slowly feeds himself because he needs to concentrate due to his co-ordination still not being what it was.  

For three weeks Sherlock had watched as John progressed in his rehabilitation and has encouraged and helped where he could.  He has revelled in the good days, where he and John managed to laugh at something small and inane, but mostly he had tried to be supportive in what was most likely Johns darkest days.  He has sat through the mood swings and offered understanding and reassurance when John zones out, neither which is as often as when he first woke up, and he has watched John, looking out for all the little signs that the man he once was is still in there somewhere, trying to break free.

The whole time he has been unaware of where they would end up, but a small part of Sherlock continues to hope that it would get back to where they were, that things would get better and they would be able to place this entire part of their lives behind them.  

With just a small mishap, that hope is extinguished.

John raises his spoon to his mouth, slowly leaning forward, but the spoon tilts just a bit too early, something he hasn’t done in over a week, and the rice and curry that was on the spoon slides off of the utensil and lands on his jumper, spreading out over the grey wool, staining it orange.

“Fucking hell” John huffs under his breath and he throws the spoon down onto the table as he pushes his chair away, making to stand up.  Only, in his anger, his hand misses the edge of the table and he lurches forward, his lower chest hitting the edge of the surface as he loses his balance.

Sherlock goes to rise, all intentions of helping his friend up, when John’s voice stops him.

“Don’t” he snaps and Sherlock looks to him to see John slowly right himself.  “Don’t f-fucking help me.”

Sherlock knows that this is the beginning of the end.  This is where any hope that he had harboured of John forgiving him is shattered.  He doesn’t know why - is it in the tone of his voice, spiteful and angry or is it in the dark, unforgiving look that has fallen over his face?  Sherlock doesn’t know why he knows this is the end, but he does, and despite knowing, he tries to stop it anyway.

“John…” but he is cut off.

“I..I don’t want your help.  I don’t want anyones god..god damn help.”  John is yelling now and Sherlock can’t bare watching his friend loath himself so much.

“God, I can’t keep doing this.  This is not a f-fucking life.  This..this is hhell.”

Finally Sherlock stands up and takes a step towards John, but stops at the glare that is thrown his way.

“John” he says slowly, hoping it sounds calming.  It probably doesn’t.  John probably finds it patronising, but it is the only thing that Sherlock can think to do now.  “It’s fine.  The doctor said there would be relapses and today has been tiring…”

“No, you d-don’t get it” John cuts in, anger and desperation taking over his voice, the slight stutter manifesting due to his anxiety, just to add insult to the injury.  “You were right, b-before when you said… the last time I left home.  I was b-b-barely useful then.  Now I cahn…can’t even feed myself p-properly.  Now I am completely use-useless.”

And there it is. 

The last thread of hope, snapped and frayed, unable to be restored.

Johns words are like a punch to his gut.  Not once, had they spoken about words that had been thrown about that day.  Until that moment Sherlock wasn’t even 100% sure that John had remembered them, but now, here they were.  Out in the open and still untrue and still so fucking painful.

“I c-can’t even practice general medicine now.  They would have been b-better off beating mmme until I stopped breathing.  It would have been k-kinder.”

Sherlock can’t take anymore.  He can’t stand here listening to John, wishing himself dead. And he doesn’t know how to make it right - _if he can make it right_ -  so in an overwhelming rush of guilt and fear and confusion he does the only thing he can think of.  He turns around and leaves.  He takes himself out of the room, down the stairs and onto the street.  

He can’t stand these feelings any more.  He did this to John.  Not Reginald Hunt!  Him - Sherlock Holmes.  His words broke John more than any fists or bits of wood or metal piping could.  He destroyed the only good thing in this world and he is less than sure that he can fix it again.

~o~

Mycroft looks up from the report he is perusing as the distinct sound of his front lock clicking sounds through the silent evening.  Silence follows only to be interrupted by the stillness in the air being disturbed.  Someone has opened his front door.  

Quietly, he stands up, pulling the small revolver he has secured under his desk out as he steps towards the door to his study.  He is almost at the entrance to the room when he hears the door shut and a slow, but familiar tread walks up the hallway towards where he is.  

Letting out the breath he had been holding, he drops the firearm onto the side table and goes out to greet his brother.

“Oh, Sherlock” he sighs when he sees the picture before him.  There is his brother, looking lost and broken.  He has obviously walked to Mycrofts house, despite the downpour outside, as a drowned rat would look dryer than his brother currently does.  

Silently he walks past him and without a word, Sherlock follows.  

“Sit” Mycroft instructs as they enter the kitchen and the fact that Sherlock does without argument speaks volumes.

Mycroft makes his way into the laundry and comes back with a dry towel.  Removing his brothers coat and scarf, he hands the towel over and watches as Sherlock dejectedly starts rubbing at the excess water that  has reduced his curls to an unbelievable straight, straggly length.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that this is about John Watson and while the man before him is distracted he fires off a text to Anthea to arrange for someone to check in that Doctor Watson is not about to do anything stupidly permanent. 

The silence continues as Mycroft heats up the kettle and prepares coffee.  Adding a dash of whiskey to Sherlocks he carries the cups over to the bench where his brother is seated and takes a stool across from him, pushing a mug closer to his brother.  

Reluctantly Sherlock drops the towel and reaches out for the cup, wrapping his hands around the hot ceramic to stop them from shaking.  

Mycroft doesn’t ask.  Sherlock will speak when Sherlock is ready to speak.  

In the silence Mycroft closely observes his brother for the first time in weeks.  He is thinner - not eating enough and he is tired.  This is not surprising as his brother has spent the past three weeks and two days sleeping in the same room as John Watson,  sleeping in an uncomfortable plastic chair.  His body seems to be wracked with intermittent, small shivers, most likely due to the wet clothes he is wearing and his bottom lip is red and puffy.  He has been chewing on it recently, most likely on his trek to Mycrofts house.  What bothers Mycroft most, though, is his eyes.  It has been years since he has seen Sherlocks eyes so lifeless.  The last time had been when he refused to acknowledge Mycroft’s presence at the rehab facility he had organised for his brother.  He hadn’t spoken to Mycroft for ten months after that.  He also hadn’t started using again, except for the odd one-off relapses, since then either.  Now though, Mycroft wasn’t sure if this was a game changer or not.  

Since Doctor Watson had come into Sherlocks life he has seen a remarkable change in his brother.  It was as if Sherlock finally had a reason to become a better person.  He had found someone he wanted to make proud.  His two year hiatus away from Doctor Watson had almost ruined him.  It had only been bearable for his brother because there was the prospect of coming back to John.  That happiness at returning had been dented somewhat when he came home to an engaged John Watson, but he had continued on anyway, still showing off for his doctor and when the Mary and Moriarty problems had both been resolved he had become more like himself from the early days of John.  

Now, though.  Now he looks utterly destroyed.  He doesn’t know what Sherlock and John had argued about that day, but whatever it was has left an open pit of fear somewhere inside of Sherlock.  Gregory knows something of it, but he hasn’t divulged the information and Mycroft, for once, hasn’t requested it.  It had been none of his business and knowing it will not make his brother happy, but whatever it is, is surely the root cause of his brothers current distress. 

Finally, after eighteen minutes, Sherlock speaks.

“He would rather they had killed him.” 

The words are low and rough, and his voice hitches on _killed_.  Mycroft lets him continue.

“He thinks he is useless and it is my fault.  I told him, that day, that he was and now he thinks he is.  This is all my fault.  I broke him.”

Mycroft watches as his brothers face crumples and his head drops into his hands and he hears Sherlock take a deep, shuddering breath.  It is then that Mycroft decides that it is not the soft, nurturing hand that is needed to get him through this.  If that were the case, Sherlock would have taken the train to go see Mummy.  No, what Sherlock needs is some cold hard truths, and what better person to come to, than Mycroft.

“Do you honestly believe that, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks and at his question, Sherlocks head snaps up.  For once in his life, Mycroft is actually happy at being the recipient of his brothers angry glare.

“Go on, tell me about how it wasn’t me that damaged John, it was Reginald Hunt and his little friends.  Tell me how John would have forgiven me, had he not been taken and beaten to a bloody pulp.”  Sherlocks voice has gone from desperate to damaging as he looms across the counter to invade Mycrofts personal space.  Mycroft doesn’t bat an eyelash.  “You’ve been spending so much time with Geoff, you are starting to sound like him.”

“Gregory has nothing to do with this conversation” Mycroft informs Sherlock casually, “And no, that is not what I was going to say.  What I was implying, when I asked if you truely believed it, was that do you honestly believe that Doctor Watson would sincerely rather be dead?”

At his words Sherlock seems to back off again.  Mycroft takes the silence to continue, before his brothers self pitying urges him into another diatribe. 

“I am sure that what you said that day was horrendous, but Doctor Watson is used to how sharp your tongue can be, and yet he still returns, time and time again.”

“No, Mycroft” Sherlock spits, finally managing to get a word in.  “My words that day were unforgivable.  If I hadn’t said them, John wouldn’t have left.  He would have been more alert.  This wouldn’t have happened.  You don’t know how I hurt him, you weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t.  You made me remove all of the surveillance equipment.”

This brings a snarl to Sherlocks face.  “This isn’t about you and your stupid games, Mycroft.”

“No, it isn’t” Mycroft agrees.  “Nor is it about you and your self-pitying melancholy, so snap out of it, Sherlock.  You have never done guilt well, I suggest you don’t try and start now. 

“Your doctor, your _friend_ is angry.  Not at you, not at Reginald Hunt.  At life.  At what he is going through.  I suggest you step back from yourself for a moment and look at how it is for the man who is currently living a life that is painful and frustrating.  Look at what he is going through, what he is losing, and then, if you still feel that this is about you, then you can play the guilt game, but until you have considered this from every one of John Watsons angles then you have no right to make this about you.  Make yourself useful, help the man through the rut he is in.  You did it once before, do it again.”

“He doesn’t want my help” Sherlock snaps back, but Mycroft can see that the anger has shifted.  It isn’t directed at Mycroft, nor is he directing it at himself.  He is finally directing it where it needs to be directed.  At John Watson, for giving up.

Certainly, John has a right to be angry.  His brother is a colossal arsehole, and what had been done to him had been cruel and unfair, but John is a fighter.  He would get through this and self pity doesn’t look good on him either.

“Then help by not helping then” Mycroft advised.

Confusion is showing through Sherlocks anger now and Mycroft takes a drink of his coffee before continuing.

“If he doesn’t want help, then let him sort it out on his own.  You have been there, in his face, observing every single one of his failures for the past three weeks.  The poor man probably needs some time to breath, to collect himself, to try and push his boundaries without fear of having his failures observed.  

“He respects you, Sherlock, admires you, and you seeing him at his worst is probably humiliating on some level - multiple levels to be truthful.  How do you think he would have reacted, all those years ago, had you actually told him that you were going to rid him of his limp?”

Silence fills the spaces between them and around them as Mycroft watches his brother think his words over.  

“Go back to how you were before the case that started all of this came along.  Just, be yourself and then, eventually, John will be himself.”

Sherlock looks down into the cup in his hands and Mycroft can see when he accepts that his brother is right.

“It’s why I’m the smart one” Mycroft says softly, a smile tainting his tone.

“You’re a pompous git” Sherlock answers back without any malice and when he looks up, he sees the light starting to burn in his brothers eyes again.  Sherlock stands up and reaches for his still sodding wet coat.

“Would you like me to organise a lift back to Baker Street?”  He asks as Sherlock heads for the door, pulling his clothing back on.

“No” his brother replies, stopping to look out the window.  “The rain seems to have stopped.”  And then, Mycroft finds himself alone, making a mental note to change his security code once again in the morning, only if it is to set Sherlock another challenge.

~o~

John stares up at the ceiling, the white of it faintly glowing in the dark now that his eyes have adjusted.  Hell, they had adjusted hours ago when he first went to bed.  He has taken the medication for the pain, which is considerably less then it was when he first woke up in hospital, and it has lulled the pain into a dull lingering throb, easily ignored, but he still can’t sleep and he refuses to take the medication they gave him to help sleep. He had stopped that once he got out of hospital.  Damned if he is going to become dependent on sedatives.  So instead, he lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling in the dark, waiting for sleep to finally claim him.  It will eventually.

In the meantime he can’t stop his brain from rehashing everything he has been through this past month.  The argument is now remembered in full clarity, but it no longer bothers him.  Sherlock can be cruel, John has always known that, and especially so when he has been hurt and Sally had hurt him that day.  Maybe not as much as he had hurt John, but it had still been there all the same and Sherlock reacted in the only way he knew how.  He transferred that hurt onto someone else.  John just happened to be the unlucky bastard who had gotten in the way.  Not that that excused the arsehole.  What he had said still wasn’t acceptable and at some stage John would have to make that clear.  That is if he is going to stay here, but that is a thought for when he isn’t trying to go to sleep.

Then he remembers the following events.  Over the weeks, bits and pieces had filtered back to him.  Not a lot, but enough to confirm that Reginald Hunt was the guilty party who had ordered Johns kidnapping and beating and that Jason Kingston was most definitely the bastard who had dealt the blows that had left him unconscious. 

The worst parts are not what he remembers of his captivity.  He is no stranger to pain, and while he most certainly does not enjoy it, it is something he can handle.  The worst part about the following weeks is waking up broken.  The doctors tell him that his progress has been good, and with continued therapy - speech and physical - he will eventually get back to as good as new.  John has his doubts, but perseveres all the same.  He cringes at the thought of being more than helpless and at the fact that Sherlock had been there to see it all.  Was still witnessing it all, though, to be fair, since Johns last tantrum (because face it - that is what they are) he has backed off somewhat.  

Wherever he went three nights ago, and whatever he did had caused a change in the man.  He had come home, wet and bedraggled and with a “Good evening, John” had gone to the bathroom to shower and then gone to bed.  The following day had saw Sherlock more like his old self.  He didn’t hover much and he didn’t constantly ask if _John was okay, was John comfortable, would John like a cup of tea, has John had his medication_.  He has still been more accommodating than usual and on the odd occasion John does catch him monitoring his movements, but he has backed right off and John can’t say he minds at all.  But while Sherlock has started to become more like himself, things are still strained.  There is something between them that is stopping their normal relationship, the one that had been gradually becoming something more since he had come back to Baker Street,  from setting itself right again.  John would like to say that it is him, his anger and his feeling of helplessness, but that’s not it, at least not all of it.  There is something not quite right with Sherlock either, despite him acting more and more like himself over the past three days.  There is something between the both of them that is leaving things still slightly strained and until they both figure out what it is, it is not going to get better.

John groans and turns his head to look at the clock on his night stand.  The red numbers glowing in the dark inform him that it is 423am.  With another groan, John pushes the blankets aside and sits up.  It is clear that sleep isn’t coming anytime soon.  Maybe a cup of tea will help.  He is sure there is still some camomile in the cupboard…maybe.  

John hobbles downstairs, deciding half way that he probably should have brought his cane with him, despite despising it more than the first time he had to use it, and then decides that he really can’t be bothered turning around and going back upstairs.  He will just have to deal with the ache in his leg.  If need be, he would settle in his armchair and spend the rest of the night there.  It’s not like the quality of his sleep was any better in his bed.  As he nears the door to their living area he can just make out a faint strip of light coming from under the door.  So Sherlock is awake then.  John isn’t sure whether to continue or to turn back and go to bed.  Despite things getting better, he knows that it will be awkward.  During the day, the chasm that has formed between them is somewhat easily bridged by other things happening; visits from Mrs Hudson, Greg with cold cases for Sherlock, Mycroft sending irritating text messages, crap telly.  Now, there will be nothing.  There will be Sherlock silently asking why John isn’t sleeping, deducing whether it is the pain or the nightmares that are keeping him awake.  It will be John silently telling Sherlock to let it go.  It isn’t any of his business, to just let him work it out himself.  It will be Sherlock looking at John with that lost sort of look in his eye and John not sure what to do with that look, because Sherlock doesn’t do lost.  He does angry and frustrated and fierce determination to find the answer, but he doesn’t do lost and John will then have to turn away and mutter something about wanting tea, or needing the loo, or just stretching his legs.  It is all much easier in the daylight, when life continues on around them.  It is this very thing, the thing that is there when everything else is absent, that is the thing stopping them from being _them_ again.  And John doesn’t know what it is so he doesn’t know how to make it go away.  

It is then that he realises he has reached the landing to their living area and has been standing at the living room door, hand gently on the door knob as he let those thoughts run free in his mind, for he not knew how long.  If Sherlock was indeed in the living room then he would know that John was there,  and had been for a bit now so turning around would be a bit obvious that he was avoiding the situation.  Taking a steadying breath in he opens the door to their living room.

As predicted, there is Sherlock, laid out on the couch, looking expectantly at the door.  John nods in greeting and then shuffles into the room, wishing he had actually turned around and gone back up to retrieve his cane.  Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock move, as if he were making to get up off the couch, but then changed his mind and instead settles back into his prone position on the couch.

Without a word John continues into the kitchen and stops in front of the cupboards, reaching up to remove a mug from the shelf.  He has to reach further to get the tea tin, the one that will hopefully have camomile teabags in it, and the action causes him to flinch, pulling his arm back down as a brief pain shoots across his still damaged ribs.  He tries again, this time a bit more gingerly, but without the extra stretch the tea tin is just out of his reach.

“Oh, for god sake” Sherlock huffs and John hears him get up off of the couch.  “This is ridiculous.”  It takes a few seconds for him to cross in to the kitchen, stalk up behind John, grab the tin of teabags and slam them down onto the counter.

“Before” Sherlock snarls as he heads back towards the living room, “You would have called me an arse for putting the teabags up too high and then told me to get them down.”

“Fine” John snaps, suddenly feeling angry, at something other than himself, and it actually feels good.  “You’re an arse.  A fucking inconsiderate dickhead.  Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes” Sherlock practically yells, spinning around on the spot, his hands raking through his hair, indicating his frustration.  

“Fine” John yells back, only for his voice to then drop to a dangerous quiet.  “You are selfish, childish and a thoughtless twat.  You’re a know-it-all and a drama queen and have fuck all regard for the effect your spiteful, angry, impulsive words have on people, especially those wh-whho are trying to help you, wh-who are on yyyyour side.”  John ignores the slight stutter that has made an appearance, determined to put all of his focus into telling Sherlock exactly what he thinks.  “S…simply put, you…you, Sherlock Holmes, are a fuck…fucking arse, and that’s without putting the teabags up t…too high - that just makes you a sp…spiteful, fucking arse!”

For a few moments, that seem to stretch into forever, the two of them just glare at each other, no movement, no sound.  Then Sherlock grins and John can’t help it.  A slow giggle escapes his mouth, and once it escapes, just a bit, John finds he can’t stop.

It doesn’t take long for Sherlocks deep chuckle to join Johns giggle and John is certain that neither of them know what they are even laughing at, but god it feels good.  

“Oh my god” he gasps, once he finally gets himself under control, slightly breathless, his ribs starting to protest under the vigorous jolting of his giggles.  “You really are a f…fucking arse, you know that, don’t you.”

John looks to Sherlock and the other man just nods, a half smile on is face but the laughter has left his eyes.

“I am sorry, John” Sherlock says quietly, and that is how John knows he means it.  He isn’t making some big show of his apology, but to be honest, John had seen it in the hospital, with the way that Sherlock had stayed by his side.  At the time he hadn’t seen it for what it was.   A small part of John, the part that hadn’t been wallowing in absolute and total self-pity, had actually been confused as to why Sherlock had stayed the entire time.  But here it was.  Guilt.  Not something he has seen on Sherlock before, not really.  Small things, like drugging him with hallucinogenics in a government lab, sure, but never anything that was actually worth feeling truely guilty for.  Even after his return he hadn’t felt guilty - he had felt fully justified in making John believe he was dead for two years and had told John on numerous occasions that he wouldn’t have changed what he had done if he had had to re-do it all over again. - John was alive for that sacrifice.  So it was no wonder that John hasn’t recognised what was between them these past few weeks.  

“You don’t have to be sorry” John tells him, and he meant it.  Apart from that one time, in hospital, when John had wanted to blame Sherlock for everything, he hadn’t been able to do it.  None of this was Sherlocks fault, and while his words had cut deep, they aren’t something that would have made this gap that had grown between them since he had uttered them.  That was Johns anger and, apparently, Sherlocks guilt.

“But, I do” Sherlock responds, looking John in the eye.  “I didn’t mean anything, I shouldn’t have said those things.  I was angry, but not at you.”

John wants to tell him that he knows all of this, that it is all fine, but Sherlock keeps talking.

“And then you left, and if I hadn’t have said those things you wouldn’t have left the flat and then…”

“This was not your fault”John cuts in, his hand gesturing down at his body and then back up at his head.  “None of it is your fault.”  Sherlock goes to open his mouth to protest, but John stops him once again.  “This wasn’t your fault” he repeats.  “And it wasn’t my fault.  This was Hunt and his men.  That’s it.  Plain and simple.”  John speaks slowly to avoid his speech becoming slurred or stuttered, due to the exhaustion that is suddenly taking over and the high emotion that is fuelling their long overdue talk.  “Yes, you were an arsehole, and what you said was not at all acceptable, but that’s you Sherlock, I know that, and Sally was a fucking bitch that day.”

Suddenly, John feels very tired and the thought of trekking back up to the stairs seems impossible and his next words take some serious effort to get out clearly.  “Just, next time…maybe talk to me instead of insulting me, yeah?”

There is no response from Sherlock, at least not verbally.  Instead he gently grabs Johns elbow and leads him to the couch.  John sinks into the couch, wincing as his ribs pinch and watches as Sherlock goes into the kitchen.  He rests his head back against the back of the couch and listens to Sherlock move around the kitchen in the rare act of making tea for the both of them.  It isn’t long before he is pushing a hot mug into Johns hand and the scent of chamomile wafts through John’s nostrils.  He sips his tea and hums out a thanks and Sherlock takes that as permission to sit on the sofa, drinking tea.  

“Don’t leave” Sherlock says after a few minutes of silence and John lets his head roll against the back of the couch so he is looking at the other man.  

“I’m too tired to move anywhere.  I’ll probably kip here for the night.”

“No. I mean, don’t leave, here.  Baker Street.”

A small frown descends on John’s brow.  How could he possibly know that he had entertained that thought once or twice since returning home from the hospital, unable to stand the unease that had formed between them, unsure as to if it was ever going to fix itself?

“I know you have at least thought about it, but don’t.  Please.”  When John doesn’t say anything, not sure what to say, Sherlock keeps going.  “I, I will change, I will do more, say less, consider you more, just, please, don’t go again.”

John unwraps his right hand from around his almost empty mug and reaches out to rest it on Sherlocks shoulder, instantly knowing that there was no way he could leave Baker Street again.  Not really.  “You don’t have to change, Sherlock” John reassures him.  “In fact, I’d really rather you didn’t.  I’ve sort of gotten used to you the way you are” he smiles softly and Sherlock looks up from his hands, to John.  

"You’ll stay?”  

John’s smile grows, just a bit.  “I’ll stay.”

John doesn’t know why Sherlock does what he does next, whether it is the relief of hearing John say that he would stay, or if it is the smile that John gives him, or if there is some hidden meaning in their conversation that only Sherlock is aware of, but as soon as John tells Sherlock that he is not leaving Baker Street, Sherlock leans down and slots his lips over Johns.  

John isn’t sure why, whether it be because of the pain medication, or because he is beyond tired, or if it is because this is something that he has considered on more than one occasion, but after he registers that Sherlock is in fact kissing him, he applies pressure of his own and parts his lips, just a bit, returning the kiss that Sherlock was bestowing on him.  

Too soon, Sherlock pulls back, resting his forehead against Johns.  “I wasn’t meant to do that.  I’m sorry” he says, not sounding overly that sorry at all. 

“It’s all fine” John replies and leans forward to push his lips against Sherlocks.  Sherlock pushes back.

“John?” Sherlock asks, pulling back one more time. “Is this…are we…”

“If you want” John supplies, fondly amused that Sherlock is having trouble forming a complete sentence, but not cruel enough to make him spell it out.  Sherlock seems to consider the situation before looking John in the eye.

"I do want.” He goes to lean in, to kiss John again, but John pulls back.

“This doesn’t make everything okay” he tells Sherlock, and Sherlock gives a short nod.  “I still think you were a massive twat that day.”  

Sherlock responds with a very quiet, yet solemn, “Yes, I know.”  

“And, it can’t happen again.”

Something seems to waver in Sherlocks expression and he takes a few seconds to reply.  “Never again.”

John reaches for Sherlock and Sherlock leans into his touch, allowing John to pull him into an embrace.  Gingerly, Sherlock brings his hands up and wraps them around Johns body, careful of his ribs and other injuries.  They stay that way until Johns leg starts to twinge and he is surprised to find himself being rearranged on the couch, so Sherlock is resting against the side of the couch, one leg along the length of the couch, and the other positioned off the couch and John positioned between his legs, leaning with his back against Sherlocks torso.

“You don’t have to sleep here too” John tells him as Sherlock brings his other leg up onto the couch, wrapping it gently over Johns shin.  

“Shush” Sherlock tells him, pulling John back further onto him.  “It’s fine.  It’s more comfortable than the hospital chair.”  And he yanks the blanket off of the back of the couch and fans it out over the two of them.  

“You didn’t have to stay there then, either” John tells him as he wriggles until he is comfortable and Sherlock tells him to “Shush” again, so he does and the two of them lay together on the couch, letting the silence pull them into slumber.  Before he slips under completely he turns his head on Sherlocks chest and mutters, “But, I’m glad you did” and just as he loses consciousness he feels Sherlocks long fingers intertwine with his own.

 

~o~

Sherlock savours the smell of John, sans the hospital grade antiseptic, and holds still, with his eyes still closed for just a few more moments.  When he had fallen asleep, only a few hours ago, it had been to a softly snoring John Watson, and a large part of him was convinced that when he woke up, John would be gone.  But he isn’t.  He is still wrapped in Sherlocks arms (and legs) and his soft snore has turned into a heavy, slow, steady breathing.  Sherlocks hand is resting on Johns chest, just over his heart, and he can feel the strong, steady beat through layers of cotton and skin and muscle and bone.  The rhythmic _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump_ , is almost enough to lull Sherlock back to sleep, but he stays awake, savouring the smell and feel and sound of John Watson, just in case last night was a one off.  Just in case John does decide that Sherlock is not worth it.  Just in case he does leave.  Then Sherlock will always have this.

Sherlock opens his eyes when John snuffles and then mumbles “No cats.  No…” and Sherlock can’t help the smile that pulls the corners of his lips up.  The only time he has ever heard John vocalise in his sleep, is during his nightmares, not that he has had many opportunities to witness John sleeping - the hospital stay not counted as John’s sleep was usually medically aided, levelling his nightmares to barely there - but somehow he doesn’t find it surprising that John is a talker.  In fact, he finds it endearing, if he is being honest with himself.  

Sherlock shuffles a bit to the side, moving slow so as not to jostle John, so he can angle his head down and watch him sleep.  He had had this opportunity many times while John was in hospital, but never in that time had John looked as peaceful as he does now.  Last night there had been no nightmares and no nagging thoughts keeping him from sleeping.  He had been warm and comfortable, pain at a manageable level and as a result John had slept deep and peacefully.  It is a much needed rest that is well overdue and if Sherlock needs to lay there all day, so John can continue getting that rest, then on the couch he will stay.  

As it turns out, Sherlock only needs to lay there for another seven minutes as, after that time, John slowly blinks his eyes open, it taking a few moments for him to remember where he is and who is with him.  Sherlock holds his breath, not making a sound, waiting to see what Johns reaction will be.  

“Good morning” John croaks and his hand comes up to Sherlocks, the one on his chest, and he places it over it, the warmth of Johns hand spreading through his hand and up his arm, and the breath he had been holding slowly leaves his lungs.  

John is still staying.

Sherlock opens his mouth to return the morning salutations.  “I love you” he says instead.  It is what he had wanted to say to John last night, when John had said he would stay, but instead he had kissed him, after all, it is easier to get over rejected advances than it is to get over a rejected heart.  But John hadn’t rejected him.  He had returned the kiss and then offered him more.  He had offered a life together.  For how long is still to be seen, but Sherlock can’t go any longer without letting John know exactly what he means to him.  It is what he should have said last night, when they got home from the hospital, when John had finally woken up, before John had left the apartment, when Sherlock had come back from his two years away.  It was then that he had realised that what he felt for John was more than just friendship.  But he hadn’t said it any of those times, so he was saying it now.  

Silence follows Sherlocks admission and he feels Johns fingers trace patterns over his own.  He can’t see Johns face so it is hard to tell what his reaction is.  Had it been too soon?  Sherlock didn’t care.  It needed to be said, and if John didn’t return the sentiment then that was all fine.  So long as John knows that he, Sherlock Holmes, loves him, John Watson.

“I love you too” John replies and a sort of calm settles over the two of them as they relax back, Sherlock against the couch and John against Sherlock, and let the morning carry on around them while they enjoy, just being with each other.

~o~

The entire day carries on like that.  Mrs Hudson visits once, and seeing them on the couch, Sherlocks head in John’s lap, Johns fingers carding through Sherlocks hair as they both do the crossword puzzle in yesterdays paper, she leaves and doesn’t bother them again for the rest of the day.  His brother texts, three times and Sherlock ignores them all.  

They kiss and place gentle touches on each other but never openly speak of the change in their relationship.  What is there to say? 

As the room starts to darken they decide that because neither can be bothered cooking they will order takeout.  While they eat noodles and spring rolls out of the cardboard cartons, occasionally stealing something from the others box, they watch old movies from the 80’s, with Johns feet in Sherlocks lap while Sherlock picks apart the plot, script and any discrepancy in the filming ( _He didn’t have his tie tied last shot, John, why is it tied now?  That’s just poor directing!_ ) and John chuckles at the cheesy one liners and Sherlocks observations.  By the end of the movie, Sherlocks head is resting on Johns thighs while his feet hangs over the arm rest.  

After a cup of tea they finally shower and changed into fresh pyjamas.  Sherlock gently clasps Johns hand and directs him to his bedroom.  John doesn’t protest.  

Sherlock stands him next to the bed and kisses him.  John gently holds onto Sherlocks t-shirt and kisses him back.  Slowly, as if asking for permission, Sherlock pulls at the hem of Johns shirt.  John takes a step back to give Sherlock room to pull it over his head, and careful of Johns injuries, he pulls the shirt up and slides it up and over his arms.  

There are no longer bruises on Johns body, but there are small, faint scars from where his skin had broken.  Most of them will fade over time, but there is a long scar running vertically on the right hand side of his abdomen, approximately eight inches long.  It is still very pink and tender to touch.  It is where the surgeon had to cut into John to save his life.  Sherlock swallows the lump forming in his throat and John brings his hand up to where the scar is on Sherlocks own torso, underneath his t-shirt.  

“Neither of us are at fault, Sherlock” he tells him gently and Sherlock looks up to his face.  It is soft and smiling and there is not a hint of blame or anger there.  He leans in and kisses John again.  Johns hands sneak under his shirt and run up his back, fingers tracing his other scars.  Scars John had seen while caring for Sherlock in those months after getting shot, and Sherlocks fingers trace the entry wound of the bullet scar on the back of Johns shoulders.  

Neither of them are whole, they are both a bit broken, but that is fine, because they are alive and they are together.  John pulls Sherlocks t-shirt up and he assists in getting it up and over his head.  Next are the pants.  John pushes Sherlocks pyjama bottoms down, letting gravity pull them to the floor once they are over his hips, leaving him standing in black boxer briefs.  He steps out of them and kicks them away and then does the same to John.  John isn’t wearing anything under his pyjama bottoms.

“I am suddenly feeling very overdressed” Sherlock murmurs as he rests his forehead against Johns and watches as the mans semi-hard penis twitches.  

John responds by pushing Sherlocks pants to the floor.  “Problem solved” he says as Sherlocks more than semi-hard penis springs free.

“Problem solved” Sherlock agrees.

It occurs to Sherlock then that, while it sometimes took them a while to get there, he and John have managed to solve every problem they have been faced with.  It is what they do.  They make things work for them, even if sometimes it doesn’t look like it is going to.

They can make this work too.  Them.  Together.  Like this.  

The apprehension that Sherlock had felt upon waking up, that John would eventually not want this anymore, starts to fade away as the realisation that they had always been here, just with more clothes on, since day one dawns on him.  They have always had this connection.  Even after he left and returned, John came back.  When Mary had shot him and when John had returned to her, Sherlock had held no ill feelings against John.  After their latest drama, John assured Sherlock that he did not hold him responsible.  

The drugs, the mood swings, the tempers, the dating, the experiments, the brash, harsh words, the constant getting into danger, the irritating family members.  No matter what one flung at the other, they worked around it and they forgave.  It is what they did.  Together.  

And they can do this together.

Sherlock kisses John again, this time stepping closer so their bodies are pressed, lightly, together.  Johns hands bracket Sherlocks hips and Sherlock holds Johns shoulder blades, pulling him close as the kiss heats up.  

Once Johns mouth leaves Sherlocks, and starts travelling down his neck, Sherlock decides that the bed would be a far better location and awkwardly, he manages to direct the two of them, while trying to keep Johns mouth on any part of him they can manage, so John is lying on the mattress with Sherlock on all fours, over him.

They go back to kissing and Sherlock reaches over, fumbling in his draw for lubricant, thrusting it into Johns hand once he locates it.  John doesn’t need further instruction and before long there is one short, thick, wet finger, pushing into Sherlock.  Sherlock can’t stop the small whine that comes out of his mouth as he pushes back onto the intrusion.  It is when the second finger joins the first that Sherlock pulls his mouth away from John and buries his face in Johns neck, panting against the sweat slicked skin as John pushes and pulls and scissors his fingers.  

“ _Huhhhgh_ ” is all Sherlock is capable of saying as Johns fingers swipe over his prostate and his back bows, so the tip of his penis bobs against Johns stomach.

John slips in a third finger and Sherlock can’t help lowering himself down so he can rut against Johns hip, careful not to lean too much on his stomach.  The want, the need, to feel something against his prick is too much and at the sensation of feeling Sherlock rub up against him, John lets out a deep moan.

He pulls his fingers from Sherlock and Sherlock lets out a high, needy moan of his own, but John places his hands back on Sherlocks hips and pulls him up and over so he is above Johns cock.  Sherlock reaches down and positions the thick length beneath him and then sinks down, pushing the burn aside in favour of the electric spark that skitters up his spine as he pushed down onto Johns pelvis.

“Sherlock” John gasps, and Sherlock leans over, twinging at the pleasant pull the change in position causes, and places his elbows next to Johns head.

“John” he whispers back, and leans down and kisses him.  John kisses him back and intensifies the grip he has on Sherlocks hips.  Sherlock takes that as his cue to move.

At first it is just a slow roll of the hips, relishing in the feeling of being full of John.  A small huff leaves Johns lips and Sherlock pulls off of John until only the head of his penis is inside him.  He then slides back down, just as slow.  This continues until John tries to thrust up to meet him and Sherlock sees a wince of pain cross his face as his still bruised ribs smart.  It is only small, but Sherlock is determined that it not happen again, so he lowers one hand down and holds Johns hip in place and then speeds up his movements.

It isn’t long before the spark that Sherlock could feel skittering up his spine turns into a heat that engulfs his entire body and when John wraps his hand around Sherlocks erection it only takes a few smooth, firm strokes before his is coming, spilling over onto Johns hand and stomach again and again, with a long drawn out “ _Johhhhhhhhhn_ ” leaving his mouth. 

The arm that is holding him up from laying on John is starting to tremble and he pulls off of John, causing the other man to moan and himself to hiss, and he rolls to the side, mouthing at Johns jaw before moving down to his neck.  The hand that had been holding onto Johns hip, slides over and wraps around his still hard cock and starts to stroke.  John moans and lowers his hand, still sticky with Sherlock ejaculate, down to join his and together they pull John to completion, a loud shout that sort of resembles Sherlocks name, sounding in the room as John pulses over their joined hands, his hips stuttering until they still and then it is just the two of them, panting against each others sweat dampened skin while they both recover.

It doesn’t take long for them to feel the cool of the room and Sherlock gets up to go to the bathroom to clean himself off.  When he comes back, a fresh flannel in his hand for John, it is to find John, sitting up against the headboard flipping through the journal he had put together for Sherlock.

“I…that’s…I must’ve…”  Sherlock stutters, not sure how to explain to John that he had been sleeping with it under his pillow since they had come home from the hospital.

“I didn’t realise you had even opened it” John muses, running his fingers over the image of a curved spinal column.  _Scoliosis_.

“I did” Sherlock blurts and then, with more composure, “I never got around to thanking you for it.”

John looks from the book on his lap, up to Sherlock and smiles.  Sherlock smiles back and then goes to sit on the bed. 

“I was unaware that you could draw” he says as he cleans John up and he is surprised that John is letting him.

“It’s not something I do often” he tells Sherlock.  

“You should.  You quite talented” Sherlock informs him, chucking the flannel away and scooting next to John, pulling the blankets over them.  

“You say that with such surprise” John says with good humour, tucking it back under the pillow, where he had obviously found it.  Sherlock reaches under and pulls it back out.  He has John in his bed now.  He doesn’t need the book.  He puts it on the cupboard and switches out the lamp then slides down the bed until he is lying.  He tugs on Johns hip until he is lying next to Sherlock and Sherlock carefully drapes himself around John, not wanting to be too far away from him.  John brings his hand up and starts stroking Sherlocks hair.

“Will you finish it for me?”  Sherlock asks and he knows that John knows he is talking about the empty pages in the journal.

“I’ll finish it off and draw you more.  As many as you like with what ever you want” John offers gently and Sherlock notes that he sounds as tired as Sherlock feels.

“The list would be quite long” Sherlock tells him around a yawn and even in the dark he knows John is smiling.

“That’s fine” he murmurs.  “There’s lots of birthdays to come.”

Sherlock nods once against Johns shoulder and then closes his eyes.  They have so much time together.  It is actually quite a wonderful thought to fall asleep to.

~o~

January 6th.  Just another day.  And while Sherlock still doesn’t believe that birthdays are anything special that is worthy of ridiculous celebrations, he now has John and John likes birthdays.  John had promised him, just last night, that once he got home from work Sherlock could have anything he wanted for his birthday, so long as it wasn’t illegal or involved body parts that belonged to neither Sherlock or John.  Sherlock had taken far too long to go to sleep, too busy mentally compiling all the things he could have John do for him.  To him, even.

But fall asleep he had, only to wake up to an empty, cold, left side of the bed.   He runs his hand over the soft material of the sheet, the scent of John fills his nostrils and he rolls over and buries his face in Johns pillow.  He would be at work now, diagnosing mundane things such as colds and ingrown toenails.  Once upon a time Sherlock would have had a sulk at the fact that John wasn’t here to entertain him, but he couldn’t, not anymore.  

The day John had gotten the all clear to return back to work, after the incident, he had been ecstatic.  It was as if a light that Sherlock had forgotten existed had turned back on.  It had taken six months, after being found unconscious in an alley way, for John to get the all clear.  He had stopped zoning out, well apart from when Sherlock rattled on about the update on his ash index or on the properties of different the clutch fluids sold in Great Britain, but he did that before he was put into a coma.  There had been one more seizure since he came home, 11 weeks after being released from hospital.  It had been a major set back for the man and had seen the worst state of depression that Sherlock had ever seen him.  It had been so bad that Sherlock had refused to leave his side, fearful that he would come home to find John had washed down the full bottle of sleeping pills that were still in the medicine cupboard with the almost full bottle of vodka that was at the back of the kitchen cupboard.  He had wanted to remove both, but when he had texted Lestrade the reason as to why he would not go on a case, Lestrade had told him that he needed to trust that John wouldn’t do anything stupid, and removing the pills or the illegal gun that he was happy to pretend John didn’t own, would be a sure fire way to remove that trust.  So Sherlock had left the pills, and the vodka, the gun and all sharp implements in the flat.  He eventually allowed John to shower on his own and didn’t follow him to bed every night.  Well, at least not straight away and after two and a half weeks he felt completely comfortable letting John go to the shop on his own.

John’s speech has made a full recovery, as has his hand-eye coordinations and his mood swings had returned to that pre-coma. 

In the colder weather Johns shoulder and leg ache just a little bit more than they used to but if that just gives Sherlock an excuse to hold the man closer, to keep him warmer at night, then so be it.

The best thing about it all though, is that John finally saw himself as fit enough to join Sherlocks side at cases.  This problem had been a strain on their relationship to start off with because John saw himself as a liability, which Sherlock thought was completely preposterous, which he proceeded to tell John.  Sherlock hasn’t called John a complete idiot since that particular argument.  More arguments arose when Sherlock just refused to take cases until John was what he considered ‘ _fit enough’_ to re-join him.  In the end John had gotten Lestrade and Mycroft (which was another argument in itself) to gang up on Sherlock until Sherlock saw that it was himself who was being the idiot.  So he had taken on small cases.  Cases that took a day, two at tops, to solve and didn’t involve getting shot at, almost drowned, choked until he passed out, stabbed, knocked out, burned, tied up and beaten to a pulp, or took him any further than the outskirts of London.  Needless to say, the list of cases from The Yard were limited.  The list of private cases, on the other hand, were not.  But that was all over, because a month before he was deemed healthy enough to start practicing medicine again, John had joined Sherlock on a chase through London that involved three of the things previously listed, getting chased by a swan and a murderer behind bars and it had been the best time either of them had had in a long time.

Stretching in the over exaggerated way that he does when he has the bed to himself, Sherlock kicks off the blankets and gets out of bed, shuffling his way out to the living room and slumping down in his chair, hoping Mrs Hudson would have heard him get up and bring him some tea.

He blinks owlishly as he looks around the room, trying to shift the rest of the slumber that still hasn’t vacated his head and that is when his eyes fall on it.  

There, on the coffee table, is a parcel.  Rectangular in shape, approximately 29X21 inches.  It is wrapped in plain brown paper and this time with only two bits of extra sticky tape (Johns wrapping skills are getting better.  Pity the same can’t be said about his typing skills.)

On the front are four simple words, written in black ink in John’s neat hand writing:

_To Sherlock_

_From John_.

This time Sherlock doesn’t toss the parcel aside, disregarding it as pointless and practically useless.  This time he picks it up and studies it.  It is obviously a book, between 100 and 120 pages judging by the weight.  Without knowing the thickness of the paper it is hard to tell.

Carefully, Sherlock opens up the packaging, carefully peeling away the sticky tape and slowly folding the paper back. 

Within the wrappings Sherlock finds a leather bound journal, almost identical to the one John had given to him the previous year, except this one is larger and is covered in a midnight black leather.  He takes time to study the outside of the journal, looking and feeling and smelling the calf skin, before he sits back in his chair and rests the book on his lap.

Upon opening it he sees that once again, the front page has been left blank, but the paper is identical to that of the previous journal.  With delicate movements he grabs the top corner and pulls back the page to see what awaits him in graphite and charcoal; to see what John has given him this time.  Surely it isn’t more medical diagrams, as he still hasn’t filled the last book, although, he had contributed to it greatly.

What Sherlock finds on the inside of the following page leaves him slightly stunned, but in a very pleasing way.  The pages do contain body parts but these ones are not broken or diseased or dead.  These are the body parts of a healthy, living male.

The body parts of Sherlock, to be exact. Sherlock, as John sees him, in the throws of passion and ecstasy.  Sherlock suddenly finds himself hoping that Mrs Hudson has better things to do than to make Sherlock tea.

The first drawing, beautifully carried out in charcoal is of a strong muscled calf, delicately draped over a broad, scarred shoulder.  Every detail is captured, from the dark hairs, to the tiny mole, just under the knee cap.  The next page shows the anterior view of a long neck delicately arched back, sweat gathering in the suprasternal notch.  The following pictures show Sherlocks back, stretched and taught, muscles flexing under what is clearly Johns short but sturdy hand.  The following page is the lower part of Sherlocks face, his mouth forming a perfect O as soundless pleasure is ripped from his body.  More pictures follow, each as detailed and as sensual as the last;  Sherlocks hand, splayed over his own chest, long fingers tweaking a hard, stiff nipple; those same long fingers wrapped in dark curls, clenched in frustration and anticipation; a bottom lip gripped between teeth, an action that Sherlock has carried out multiple times while John teases an orgasm out of him.  Towards the end, the pictures get more filthier and Sherlock, who was interested before, suddenly finds himself thoroughly aroused.  There is one, sketched in lead pencil, of his, Sherlocks, long, hard cock, glistening at the tip, resting against a taut stomach.  This is followed by a very detailed drawing of his backside, rounded cheeks spread to show him ready and waiting - it really looks like there is actual lube coating his rim.  The last picture steals Sherlocks breath away.  It is the view John must see whenever he takes Sherlock, as it is of Johns erect penis sliding between Sherlocks arse cheeks, John’s sturdy hand splayed half over the left cheek, curving around Sherlocks hip, his lower back arched, pushing his backside closer towards Johns pelvis.  The picture is gorgeous, pure art and Sherlock briefly contemplates ripping it out of the book and getting it framed.  

Once again John Watson has surprised Sherlock Holmes in the most unexpected of ways.  He knew John had been drawing.  There were often charcoal or graphite smudges on his fingers, as well as indents in the skin, where he had been holding the drawing implements for long periods of time, but Sherlock had just assumed that he was adding to the original journal, which is slowly filling up with more medical diagrams.  Somehow, though, John has managed to compile this new set of drawings, without Sherlock noticing.  The fact that he had kept it from him made Sherlock cherish the present even more.  It was a testament to how utterly uniquely wonderful John Watson truely was.  Sherlock flicks through the remaining blank pages, a reminder that there is so much more to add to the book and that is when he decides what he wants John to do tonight, for his birthday.

Tonight he wants to carry out the very scenario that John has depicted on these last two pages and then, when he is finished he wants John to draw him another picture.  He wants John to draw the aftermath of that very scenario and Sherlock is going to provide the actual, live physical subject for him to draw from, lying still, even as he feels the results of their lovemaking dripping down his thighs.  

He wants John to record everything that he does to Sherlock, to capture the way he makes him feel, because he is the only person who can make Sherlock feel such extreme ranges of emotion.  He is the only one to ever truely see Sherlock and this book, that Sherlock now holds in his hands, is proof that John is the only one Sherlock will ever let close enough to actually, truely see him, at his most vulnerable.  

Sherlock flips back to the beginning and goes through the book again, this time taking the time to study each picture carefully, to observe each image carefully.  He takes time to appreciate, not just the overall picture, but also the level of detail and time and commitment that has been put into each drawing.  Sherlock had watched John add, just one other picture, to his first journal.  He had been silent the whole time, watching as John drew the lines and shaded the contours of a skull, that they had found on their latest case.  The skull, which had been buried (along with the rest of the body) for almost two years, had three small holes, pierced in the temporal fossa with a sharp instrument.  John had called the cause of the damage to the skull, (and the subsequent death of the owner of said skull) straight away, less than ten-seconds after viewing the skull; a botched, home lobotomy.   Not only had John upped the interest level of the case an extra point (it had barely been a six) but he had also done that thing, that tended to get Sherlock a bit hot and flustered under the collar.  He had looked and observed.  Adding his medical knowledge on top was just a bonus.  The only thing that could have made it better was if he had pulled rank, but that is a story for another time.  As it was, Johns instant observation had been the reason that as soon as the case had finished Sherlock and John had participated in their first bout of public sex, as Sherlock was not waiting to get back home.  John had decided to commemorate the event by adding the skull to Sherlocks journal and it had taken over an hour and a half for him to complete it, working in silence and with a fierce concentration as he recalled every small detail and added them to the image.  Again, Sherlock had been shocked that someone would put so much energy and effort into something for him, without wanting anything in return, not once - but on multiple occasions.  

So Sherlock looks through the book, carefully and appreciates every stroke of the pencil, or charcoal or biro, or whatever medium John has decided to use.  It is a side of John that only Sherlock gets to see, as not many people in his life even knows that John likes to draw, let alone can.  When Sherlock had asked why, John had told him that it was a skill his grandfather taught him, and was a way the two of them would pass the time, whenever he and his sister had to go there because mum and dad were having or getting over a drunken row.  It is his escape and that is not a part of his life that he likes to share with others.  

This book is not only a gift to Sherlock, it is a gift to John as well.  It shows how much they trust each other.  It shows how much they love each other and Sherlock is going to continue making sure that John knows how much Sherlock does love and appreciate and need him.  Everyday he will show him,  continuing when he gets home from work tonight.  

It is going to be a very happy birthday indeed.


End file.
